Coming Back
by Iph-em
Summary: The State Department announces that Emily Prentiss is a terrorist and the BAU comes to her defense, pushing Hotch and Emily together. Please forgive a brief summary. I don't own the characters, nor the show. This story is rated M for themes and some content in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Hotch sat in his chair at the round table, looking over his team. He saw them each doing what they do, the way they do it. Spencer Reid was flipping pages faster than one would think possible, while tapping his fingers on the table in an erratic rhythm. What he was tapping, Hotch didn't know. He might have been composing a symphony, calculating the infinite digits of Pi, or playing imaginary tic-tac-toe. Hell, it might just be a nervous tick. With Reid, who knew? Jennifer Jareau was reading, and re-reading each page more than once. She took copious notes. Not because she particularly needed to; it was just a holdover from her days as a media liaison. Old habits. Derek Morgan read closely, and furtively, everything that was in front of him: his files, his notes, anyone else's notes that were within arm's reach. He liked to know things. David Rossi. The old warhorse was writing. He would tap his closed file every now and then with his finger. The index finger on his left hand. And write a few more lines. Hotch didn't know what he was writing. Notes on the case, or notes on his latest book. Possibly both. Rossi was a multi-level thinker. He was definitely not a slacker. When he was working, he was working. But then again, he was due for a new book. Kate Callahan seemed to sense Hotch looking at her. She looked up and smiled. After a moment went back to her work. She would write something in her notes, look something up in the file, add to her notes, check the file again. Like clockwork. Almost. Every once in a while, she wouldn't check or double check. She'd glance at the file, but not really look. Hotch didn't have a firm read on her just yet. She was new. Not brand new and not new to the bureau. Just the BAU. She was a good agent, with a good history, but there was something. Hotch hadn't yet put his finger on it. And then there was Penelope Garcia. The BAU's own ball of sunshine. She might not normally be in the round room when they were all working; she was today. It was alright, they didn't have an open case; they were only working on consults and catching up on paperwork. Everyone liked having her near. She was sort of an antidote to the horror and gore they dealt in. Garcia had an open notebook in front of her, but was more interested in hitting Morgan in the head with gummi bears. He took them, flashed her a smile, and popped the bear in his mouth. Of course, he threw the occasional bear at Reid, who looked around and missed where it came from. And the laughter. Perhaps. Perhaps not, Maybe Reid was just adding his part to the game: the clueless younger brother everyone loves to pick on. Hotch knew Reid wasn't always as naïve or clueless as he played. Hotch smiled and looked back down at his notes. They were more or less indecipherable. He sighed. And a gummi bear hit him square in the forehead.

"You could be arrested, you know," he said without looking up. Another bear hit his notes. Hotch fixed his mouth into his trademark severe line and looked up into the smiling face of Penelope Garcia. "Assault on a Federal Agent."

"Come on Hotch of the High ground," she winked at him, "I heard that sigh. You are just as in need of a distraction as anyone else." He was too, Hotch hadn't been able to concentrate on his case files. He hadn't heard from her in weeks. Which wasn't entirely unusual; if she was working on a case, or undercover; it wasn't uncommon. But he knew her not to be working on anything right now. He couldn't reach her and it was starting to not sit right with him. Hotch relaxed his mouth and smiled at Garcia.

"That's an understatement," he said, popping the bear into his mouth. "But still. We need to get these done. Thanks for the sugar." He smiled big and was rewarded with a beam from Garcia.

"Anytime, Sir!" Garcia winked at him and went back to reading over Morgan's shoulder. Hotch shook his head. His team. They were all different, yet they fit, interlocking pieces that together made something larger, something bigger.

With one piece missing. She'd been gone from the team for a few years, but Hotch had really been feeling her loss these past several months. Eight months. Christmas. Jack had asked to see her. Talk about having the wind knocked out of you. Jack asked about her occasionally, but he hadn't for about a year. Then, wham!, for Christmas Jack asked if he could see her. If that could be his Christmas present. That didn't happen. But it did prompt Hotch to get back in touch with her. Jack got to talk to her, he was happy. Ish. They kept talking. Every other week or so. Then more often. Jack got happier, as he could talk to her on a fairly regular basis. She sent him postcards. Jack likes postcards. There's been nothing for five weeks. Nothing at all. The last contact Hotch'd had with her had been a text. Not cryptic, but not expansive either. A quick text to tell him that she'd be going out on a quick undercover and wouldn't be reachable for a little while. That was a little over a month ago; nothing since. It was inconsistent. She was never inconsistent. A quick undercover, a little while. A month and a half, almost was not quick or little in their line of work. He didn't want to be clingy. She wasn't picking up on any of her phone numbers or email addresses. His calls to her office, okay the one he made there, were answered rather cryptically. The man who answered the phone told him that she "was not in, nor was she expected in this week." When Hotch pressed, the man told him that "he was not permitted to discuss the details" and promptly hung up on him. That was weird. Even for their line of work. Hotch spent about three hours cataloguing the myriad of possibilities before he gave up and waited for her to reach out to him. She never did. Jack was asking if he did something wrong. She wasn't returning Jack's calls either. That was beyond weird. These days, Hotch tried not to imagine where she was or what she was doing. His mind just continually went to a bad place. A sundry of bad places. That's what he was trying not to do now, as Matt Cruz (the Section Chief) walked through the door.

"I'm sorry Aaron, but apparently this can't wait" Cruz stated as he gestured behind him. There were two men striding up the stairs and into the room. Cruz moved to introduce the newcomers when one of them cut him off.

"I'm Richard Watley, from The State Department. This is my counterpart at the Department of Homeland Security, Max Grant. We need to know, right now. When was the last time each of you had any type of contact – in person, by phone, text, email, or carrier pigeon – any type of contact, with Emily Prentiss."

The question landed with a dead weight. It was met by seven similar faces: incredulous and slack-jawed.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

I had to adjust the initial timeline I set up in chapter 1. Hotch first got back in touch with Emily 8 months ago, not 4, prior to the start of the story. It was still Christmas. That puts the beginning of the story in the summer. I'm going to replace chapter 1 to reflect that change. It's the only thing I'll change, anyone reading chapter 1 now won't have to readjust. Thanks!

**Chapter 2**

Watley and Grant looked around the room and stared down each member of the BAU, landing finally, on Hotch. "We're waiting," Watley practically snarled, giving Hotch a little smirk. Hotch stared back impassively. He could feel the temperature change in the room. His people, not to mention he himself, did not take too kindly to outsiders accusing anyone on the team. Of anything. Granted, no accusations had been made. But. Yet. The tone of Watley's voice, though, and Grant's stance with his hand "resting" on his sidearm, left whatever accusation was coming a foregone conclusion to the profilers in the room. It also seemed like the newcomers knew their visit would be met with hostility. Speaking of hostility, Hotch risked a quick glance to his right and left. Reid had stopped his finger tapping and was staring at Watley and Grant as if they had all the answers written on their faces and he was just soaking them in. JJ had a shrewd and pointed look on her face. Almost as if she were flipping through her mental rolodex, trying to figure out who these guys were and what they could possibly want. Hotch wondered if she might actually know these guys, from her time at the DOD. Morgan, Hotch could see, was practically vibrating with barely contained anxiety. His need to defend and protect Emily Prentiss had implanted itself firmly after their first scuffle with Ian Doyle, when they had thought they lost her. Morgan still had issues. He was about 2 or 3 minutes away from saying or doing something that might create more trouble. Depending on how the next bit went. Hotch threw a pointed look at Rossi and barely cocked his head. Rossi gave an imperceptible nod and put his hand on Morgan's wrist, an unspoken warning. Rossi didn't appear to be bothered by the intrusion from their sister Agencies. He had, however, tightened his grip on his pen. Hotch knew that to be his tell. Rossi and Emily had a very special connection. Hotch was pretty sure that was still intact. Kate's was the only face that wasn't telegraphing anything more than curiosity. Though to his knowledge, Kate Callahan and Emily Prentiss had never met. So it wasn't out of the ordinary.

Garcia, surprisingly, was the only one not looking at their visitors. Penelope Garcia was a naturally curious individual who had a sixth sense when one of her people was in trouble. She loved fiercely; her protective streak was almost as big as Morgan's. She just went about it another way. Hotch wondered. She couldn't have already been involved in whatever was going on with Emily, could she? No. No way. He'd know if she was, he reasoned. Still. She was one to watch. If she knew anything, she'd likely break first. Garcia didn't have the training the rest of them had.

Hotch heard Morgan shift in his seat and knew he needed to say something soon. Hotch returned his glance to Richard Watley, recapped his pen and laid it aside, and asked, "What was the question again?"

"Now look here Agent Hotchner—" Watley started.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Hotch interrupted him. "You walked in here with the look of someone who wants something larger than what was asked."

"In not a very friendly tone" Rossi added in a way that sounded very much like an afterthought as he continued to write in his notebook, not looking up.

Matt Cruz, trying to diffuse the situation before it escalated, attempted a mediation, "Alright everyone. Our colleagues from State and Homeland are asking a simple question about basic information. This team will, of course, cooperate. Right, Agent Hotchner?" Hotch gave no response, just continued his staring contest with Watley. "Agent Rossi?" Cruz continued. Rossi, similarly, gave no response. "Please," Cruz begged, "Agent Jareau?"

JJ turned her shrewd eyes to Matt Cruz. She saw something in them she hoped she could trust. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't know exactly, but it's been awhile. If I had to guess, I'd say about three months."

"But you know that already, right?" Reid chimed in with the matter-of-fact, rapid-fire speech he was known for when angry. Watley pulled his eyes from Hotch to Reid. Grant followed as Spencer continued, "You already have all of our phone records and email traffic. That's protocol before you come around asking questions. You forget, everybody in this room is a federal agent. We know how it works."

"Reid." Morgan said quietly, as a warning that Spencer did not heed.

"What? They know we know that." Reid added flippantly. "Why not put their cards on the table?"

"Kid has a point," Rossi said, finally looking up at Watley and Grant. "We all work from the same playbook, so just tell us what you really want to know."

"Alright. Cards on the table," Watley shifted his weight, "We know that Prentiss's most recent trackable communication with any of you was five weeks and two days ago. A text message from her Interpol issued cell to a personal cell registered to Aaron Hotchner." All eyes shifted to Hotch, whose piercing glare remained steadfastly on Richard Watley. "That cell has since stopped transmitting. And that text, it was a little cryptic, don't you think Aaron? Can I call you Aaron?"

"No. You may not."

"Fine. Agent Hotchner. 1. Was that the last contact you had with Emily Prentiss? 2. Didn't you find the wording of the text a little strange? And 3. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Emily Prentiss?" Watley practically spit out, glaring. Grant said nothing, but with his hand still atop his sidearm, Hotch wondered if his job here was simply to intimidate.

Hotch narrowed his eyes. "1. Yes. 2. No, I didn't find it strange. And 3. We're friends, and colleagues. Former."

"Former?" Watley questioned.

"Former." Hotch parroted. "As in past tense, used to be, no longer."

"You think you're so smart—"

"You are aware, Mr. Watley, that Emily Prentiss left the FBI three years ago, are you not." Hotch interrupted, "We were colleagues. Now we're former colleagues."

"That's generally how that works" Rossi pitched in.

"Look. I want to know, from everyone," Watley glared around the room, "right now, when was the last time – and by what method – Emily Prentiss got in touch with you."

After a moment of no one saying anything, Cruz prodded the team with an order, "Now people. JJ."

"Like I said, about three months ago. Email. " JJ offered, tensely. "Oh, she sent my son a present around that time too. You want me to bring him in so you can interrogate him as well?

"What was the gift?" Watley pushed back.

"A Doctor Who action figure."

"Oh nice" Reid cut in.

"I know, right? Henry's getting to that age" JJ turned to Reid.

"Really, well I can help that along. I've got a wealth of knowledge about the Doctor." Spencer chattered to JJ, ignoring the rest of the room.

"People," Cruz cut in, "can we just get on with this? Morgan?"

Morgan glared at Chief Cruz. "Fine," Morgan practically grunted, making it clear that he was only cooperating under protest, "it was a phone call. Three, three and half months ago maybe." He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down Cruz. For Morgan, it was worse that Cruz was insisting he respond to what Morgan considered a ridiculous question with a dangerous edge. It felt like a betrayal to Morgan. He had failed Emily once, he wasn't about to do it again. There weren't many reasons State and Homeland Security would be at the BAU asking about Emily Prentiss. None of them were good.

"Miss Garcia," prompted Cruz.

"I haven't actually spoken to Emily in quite a while." Penelope said quietly, finally looking up at Watley and Grant. We talk in a chat room I set up mostly. It's secure. You don't have to worry about anything there."

Watley was spending more time watching Garcia than Hotch would like. He didn't want to jump to her defense before a defense was warranted. It would end up being worse for everyone. Besides, he knew Morgan would jump in before he could. Absolutely no one in the room had missed the fact that Grant's hand was still poised over his weapon. "What would there be to worry about," Watley asked, taking a step closer to the table.

"Um, well, I mean, sometimes we talk about cases," Garcia sputtered. She turned to Hotch. "Not a lot and nothing confidential, I swear," she assured him.

"It's okay, Garcia, I believe you" he assured.

"Hold up there," Watley cut in. The BAU turned to him in one motion. "What exactly do you discuss, about these cases?" Garcia looked at him blankly. "Be very specific."

"Well, I'm not sure I…, um." Garcia swallowed. She was nervous.

"You are aware, Miss Garcia, that lying to a federal agent is a crime punishable by up to eight years in prison," Watley sneered.

"What?" Garcia exclaimed.

"Hey now! There's no cause for that," Morgan fired at Watley, standing up. Morgan's movement seemed to trigger several things to happen, almost at once. Watley and Grant stepped further into the room, closing the distance between themselves and the team at the table. Cruz, hoping again to stop the escalation, reached out to caution the visitors and grabbed Agent Grant's upper arm. Unfortunately that was the exact wrong thing to do as Agent Grant spun Matt Cruz around and had him pinned, face against the wall, with a gun to his head in a matter of seconds. Pandemonium, for lack of a better term, followed.

Agents were up, guns drawn, and yelling. Morgan pulled Garcia's chair back and away from the table. He and Rossi moved into position in front of her. Reid drew on Watley while JJ and Kate drew their weapons on Grant, demanding he release Chief Cruz. Hotch was the only one in the room not to move. Everyone in the room, with the exception of Garcia and Mr. Watley (who didn't carry guns) was a federal agent. They were in a federal building, on a Marine base. No one was firing their weapon here today. Mr. Watley and Agent Grant were showing aggression to get under the skin of the BAU. That was obviously working. His team reacted when provoked. Even more so when one of their own was threatened. Hotch had to end this now. "Everyone stop" he bellowed in a voice that would brook no arguments. It was cold, low, and cut through the room like a guided missile. It also came attached to one of his trademarked glares. Just as quickly as it started, it ended. Guns were lowered. Cruz was released. Weight was shifted. Glances exchanged.

As everyone settled back into their respective places in the room, Hotch, who had remained relatively still and quiet during the last few moments, looked pointedly at Watley. "What's really going on? We can't help you if we don't know what it is."

Watley, still being stubborn, crossed his arms and repeated the company line, "We need your last communications with Emily Prentiss. That's all." He was still pushing.

"That's clearly not all" Hotch pushed back. "You already have that information. Except for Miss Garcia's chat room data, which she'll provide you access to before you leave." A quick glance over to their technical analyst to cement and confirm his directive.

"Yes sir," Garcia nods.

"Besides," adds Morgan, "there's nothing wrong with exchanging information with a colleague."

"Former" states Watley, looking directly at Hotch while ignoring Morgan completely.

"Emily Prentiss was on this team for almost six years" JJ chimed in, "And now she works for Interpol. We're all doing the same kind of work. She's still a colleague."

"But that's where you're wrong Agent Jareau." Watley gave a little laugh. "Emily Prentiss is no longer officially employed by the International Criminal Police Organization, otherwise known as Interpol." Watley's bomb had its desired effect. The room was stunned, speechless and still. And then it burst into questions and exclamations.

"What?" Rossi.

"Since when?" JJ.

"That can't be right!" Reid.

"Where is she?" Garcia.

"What are you talking about?" Morgan.

Hotch cleared his throat, getting everyone's attention. "You clearly have more information than we do Mr. Watley. As you can no doubt tell, there's no information we have to give you."

Watley smiled. "That may be true about your team, Agent Hotchner. You however, I'm not done with yet. We have more to talk about. And Agent Callahan has been awfully quiet"

"They don't know each other" Hotch leveled back.

"Agent Prentiss has been gone from the FBI for three years; I've been with the BAU less than one. We haven't crossed paths here," Kate finished. Watley looked from Hotch to Agent Callahan to Agent Grant, who nodded.

Rossi spoke up again before Watley turned his attention back to Hotch. "So what's the big deal? Emily moved on and hasn't told us yet. How is that a matter for State or Homeland?"

This time it was Agent Grant who responded, "Ms. Prentiss hasn't moved on. She's off the grid. Interpol doesn't know where she is. This concerns a lot of people." Rossi could feel a smart ass retort forming, but he tamped it down. He didn't much care for the conclusions that were likely being drawn.

Hotch filed back through the last few texts, emails, and phone calls he had had with Emily. And yes, he had been thinking of her as Emily (instead of Prentiss) since he got back in touch with her. That was not a helpful thought right now; he pushed it aside for later. Watley had called his last text "cryptic," but it wasn't. Unless he'd missed something. "What are the prevailing theories?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Watley smiled at him, a little too predatory for Hotch's liking, then looked over at Agent Grant. "Why not?" Grant shrugged.

"Okay," Watley began, "there are 4 theories right now. Each one of them is equally possible."

"Let's hear 'em" Morgan insisted.

"Fine," Watley gave in, clearly not happy to be sharing this information. "The first theory is that she's out on an undercover mission for Interpol that they are keeping compartmentalized and not sharing with us. The second theory, a more plausible one, is that she's gone rogue and is working a mission on her own." Watley looked around the room. He saw faces harden; recognition dawn. She'd done it before. Everyone in the room knew that. Watley went on, "The third theory is that she finally broke. This last trauma was one too many and she went stark raving mad. And disappeared into the ether, to be crazy all by herself." This time when he paused, he saw sorrow and confusion on the faces in the room.

"What happened?" asked Reid

"You don't know?" Watley looked from team member to team member and saw zero indication that any of them had any glimpse of understanding. "Wow, guess we should move "friend" to the "former" category as well as "colleague." "

"Watch it!" Rossi warned.

"What happened to her?" Hotch asked quietly, but in a voice that chilled the room. His eyes boring into Watley, looking for signs of duplicity and falsehoods. He found none.

Watley stared back, then sighed and shook his head. "I'm not at liberty to give you details. Interpol had a mission go bad about two and a half months ago. Very bad. Agent Prentiss was taken. And held. Interpol botched the rescue."

Morgan slammed his fist down on the table. "Why weren't we informed?"

"What could you have done about it Agent Morgan?" queried Grant, "This all happened in Istanbul."

"Listen," Watley continued, "That's over and done with. She was in captivity for over a week. From what I understand it was pretty … brutal. Anyone would have been messed up over it. But a woman like Emily Prentiss? This was just one more trauma in a series of traumas. It's a perfectly valid conclusion that she cracked and spilled her crazy all over the place in one way or another."

"Don't say that," Reid shook his head, "Don't call her crazy. It's a pretty big leap between suffering a trauma and going rogue or checking out. Especially for an agent like Prentiss. Do you even have any proof?"

Grant considered Reid, "Proof is subjective. We have an interesting timeline Agent Reid."

"Actually, it's Doctor. What is it?" Reid, when provoked, became forthright and sharp.

"My apologies "Doctor" Reid," Grant corrected, without sincerity, "She was undercover for almost two weeks before it went bad. She was in captivity for another four before Interpol even attempted a rescue. And six days after that, when a successful rescue was launched. She was back at home for two weeks, "recovering," before she fell off the grid."

Watley looked pointedly at Hotch. "It's in that two week window that she sent you the last recorded communication we have from her, the text message."

"I see." Hotch was thinking. They all were. "And you're last theory?" At this point, he really didn't want to know. He had to thought, he had to hear someone say it.

Watley smiled. Hotch groaned internally. This really did not bode well. Watley laughed a small chuckle, almost to himself. "This one's my favorite. The last theory – is that she switched sides. Whatever happened to her… – maybe she didn't go crazy, but her switch got flipped. Agent Hotchner. The last theory is that Emily Prentiss is a terrorist."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**

Thanks everyone for the story follows and reviews. They're all beautiful. ;) This chapter took a little longer than I expected it to. I hope you like it.

**Chapter 3**

Emily Prentiss, a terrorist? It would be laughable if Watley and Grant weren't standing in the BAU making it sound somewhat plausible.

"You see Hotchner," Watley was parading his knowledge for the BAU as if he were a small child bragging about his candy score. I've got something you don't, don't'cha want it? Lame. Amateur. Transparent. Hotch hated transparency like this. Where was the imagination? The skill? He was a hack. Except. The problem was that they did want it. Badly. The BAU was used to knowing more about their cases than anyone else in the room. That went double for one of their own. Prentiss, no matter where she was or what she was doing, would always be one of theirs. And granted, this wasn't one of their cases yet. Yet. However. Official or otherwise, they were in it now. Watley continued to lay out his entirely unlikely (except that it wasn't sounding "entirely" unlikely) scenario. "Interpol fumbled their rescue attempt."

"You mentioned that already," Rossi remarked. He was frustrated with this elaborate song and dance. Watley and Grant clearly weren't just here gathering information or to inform the team. They had another agenda. Part of that agenda seemed to be getting under Hotch's skin. He wasn't entirely sure why; and he wasn't at all sure yet about the rest. Grant, whose attention (Like Watley's) had been solely on Hotch, turned to Rossi to stare him down. Rossi didn't blink. "You told us Interpol screwed it. You also told us she was back home. Get on with it." Rossi could sound menacing without the hint of a threat in his actual voice. Must have been the result of an adolescence spent with the Mob. Hotch knew that rumor to be not completely a rumor.

Grant, starting toward Rossi, but swinging around again to Hotch, continued the story, "After the failed attempt a video clip surfaced."

"Of what?" Garcia asked in a small voice.

Grant looked, for a second, like he didn't want to tell her. For that, Hotch decided, he wasn't completely an ass. Morgan put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. JJ and Reid couldn't look at her. Rossi snapped his pen in half. Only Kate looked unaffected.

"Oh," Garcia looked like she might cry.

So there was a video somewhere out there. A video of Emily's torture. Hotch clenched his fists and tried with everything he had to keep himself in check in that moment. Whoever it was that took her better pray that Hotch never saw that video. Or figured out who they were. Or so much as cross his field of vision. Ever.

"That video clip," Watley took over, "was shopped around."

"Shopped around?" Morgan interjected.

Watley looked at him. "Yes. Shopped around. We think they didn't know who was running her. I mean, Emily Prentiss is a girl that gets around, you know."

"You wanna say that again?" Morgan threatened.

"Morgan," Hotch warned. This was part of the reason these guys were here, Hotch knew. Shaking up the BAU was part of their larger agenda; but to what end wasn't clear yet.

"I just meant," Watley smirked, "Agent Prentiss was mobile. First the CIA and the JTF with Interpol. Then here at the FBI. Then Interpol again. But she must not have been finding satisfaction with Interpol because she dallied with the CIA and British Intelligence while in London." Watley was watching the BAU to see if they knew that little piece of information. They didn't. Interesting. "See. Your girl got around. To everyone but you."

"Oh please," Hotch snarled.

Watley smiled. He'd hit a nerve., "That just burns you up, doesn't it Hotchner? Earlier this year, you practically begged her to come back to you. I'm sorry, to the BAU. She turned you down. Again. But's she's…"loaning" herself out all over the world. But not to you. How does that make you feel?"

Hotch glared at Watley. "Don't do what you're doing."

"It's not surprising that everyone wants her." Rossi said carefully. "She's very good at what she does."

"And therein lies the problem." Grant stated. "She IS very good. Emily Prentiss is a top tier spy. We don't think she talked."

"Of course she didn't. Emily would rather die than let someone else be hurt because of her. We all know this." Reid fired off, remembering multiple experiences where this was true.

"Or." Watley was smug. Hotch hated smug.

"Or?" Hotch asked, through clenched teeth.

"Or. Seems to me, her allegiance is rather fluid." Watley positied, casually.

Hotch couldn't contain the huff, "does it?"

Max Grant watching this exchange and choosing to not let it escalate just then, "Right," he continued, "That's why the video was shopped around. They didn't know who she belonged to. Copies were sent to Interpol, the CIA, and MI-6. When the response wasn't immediate, a copy was sent to Ambassador Prentiss. That's how we got involved. The Ambassador has a lot of influential friends."

"The CIA knew about this and didn't tell us?" Morgan railed.

Watley sneered at him. "Because your handling of the Ian Doyle situation went so smoothly? Or course they didn't loop you in!"

Morgan exploded out of his chair, "Nobody brought us into that. Not until it was too late!"

"Temper, temper Agent Morgan," Watley taunted. "You really should put a leash on your guard dog Hotchner. If he bites, we'll have to put him down."

"Stop." Hotch commanded. Morgan took a step back and leaned against the wall, seemingly casual, but ready for action. Just in case anyone else was threatened. Watley looked at Hotch. After a short moment, he nodded his head in acquiescence. Hotch nodded too, "Which agency mounted the successful rescue?"

"None, officially," Grant offered, "It was a third party." Grant paused to look over the room, landing on Hotch. "Of sorts."

Rossi let out a genuine laugh. Everyone stared at him. What about this situation was actually funny? Ridiculous, yes, but truly funny? No. "You think we—" Rossi started to Watley and Grant, but instead redirected himself toward the team, "They think we did it. We launched the rescue." Rossi kept laughing, the laugh turning into strangled expression of emotion. "What kind of idiots work for State and Homeland these days. It's no wonder we're losing the war on terror. It's painfully obvious that no one in this room had any inkling of what was going on with Prentiss before you showed up."

"Yes, Agent Rossi, I believe that to be true," Watley began, "We don't think the BAU was involved in Prentiss's rescue."

"Not all of you anyway." Grant added.

Rossi stopped chuckling and making light. He exchanged a meaningful look with Morgan, who took an imperceptible step closer to Hotch.

Reid pushed his chair back and cocked his head at the two visitors, whom he was now calling "the interlopers" in his head, "You seriously think one of us disappeared to Europe to mastermind a rescue none of us knew was needed? You have all of our travel records, I'm sure, just like you've got our phone records and email traffic. We all travel a lot. Domestically. Doesn't leave much room for international intrigue." "Well?" Reid added when Watley had been staring for a moment too long.

"Some of you have governmental connections." Grant answered.

JJ smirked. "We ALL have governmental connections."

"Connections with an easy ability to go international, I mean" Grant corrected. "Agent Jareau, you were with the Department of Defense for how long? And Agent Hotchner, you have significant time logged liaising with Scotland Yard, correct?

"Scotland Yard, as in London's police force. London, where Agent Prentiss is supposedly stationed," Watley needled as Grant continued: "It was the two of you who orchestrated Agent Prentiss's 2011 faked death."

"Is that supposed to be a question?" Hotch demanded. He was done with this fishing expedition.

"Here's the question, Agent Hotchner," Grant replied, "Were you and/or Agent Jareau involved in the rescue of Agent Prentiss from Istanbul in any way, shape, or form? And furthermore, what, if anything, do either of you know about her current whereabouts and/or plans?"

"How is aiding in a rescue illegal?" Callahan wondered out loud.

Watley and Grant ignored her. "What do you know?" insisted Watley.

Hotch didn't bat an eye, or wait a moment, "I'm fairly certain we've both told you we haven't had any contact with Prentiss for a few months."

"Three months," Grant countered, pointing at JJ, "and five weeks" pointing at Hotch.

"But that's not entirely correct. Is it?" Watley sneered at Hotch.

"Are we going to do this again, because I'm sure we've both got better things to do with our time?" Hotch threw back.

"A little different this time, Agent Hotchner," Grant replied, opening the folder he carried. "This time, we're going to do it with proof of you, lying to the federal government." Grant dropped a few postcards on the table. "What do you have to say about this?"

Hotch glanced over the postcards on the table. He saw something he recognized and cleared his throat. "I'd say that tampering with someone's mail is a federal offense Agent Grant. Are you implying there is something untoward about my son's correspondence?"

"Your "son" writes to Agent Prentiss?" Watley chided.

"She sends him postcards. He likes postcards." Hotch responded in a clipped manner. He could see where this was going, but through his fury, couldn't see a way to stop it before it got uglier.

"I'll bet." Watley said sweetly, too sweetly. "Little Jackie needs a mommy, doesn't he?"

"I beg your pardon." Hotch said in a low tone, shifting in his chair, sitting up straighter and pushing back from the table a bit. Simultaneously, the rest of the team was getting restless too. No one appreciated someone using their families to get to them.

"Whoa there man," Morgan exclaimed.

"Hold on there Mr. Watley," Cruz broke in. "This is unacceptable. I agreed to a veiled interrogation, I did not agree to a personal assault on the man's family."

Grant turned on Cruz, "You are a guest in this room and you will not interfere."

"I am a Section Chief of the FBI and this is my house," Cruz fired back.

In the meantime, Hotch stood up and picked up the postcards. "Gentlemen," Hotch interrupted. "Can we get back to the matter at hand?"

"Sure thing Aaron. I apologize," Cruz stepped back.

"Mr. Watley," Hotch led in, "I'd like to see the search warrant. Right now."

"Hotch?" questioned Rossi.

Hotch looked at Rossi, then at Watley, and finally Agent Grant. "These three cards were taken off the mirror in Jack's bedroom." Hotch tossed them back on the table. "I've never seen this one. So you must have intercepted it. When?"

"Figure it out," spat Watley.

Grant rolled his eyes. "Three weeks ago. Here's a copy of the warrant." Grant pulled it out of his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Hotch, who scanned it quickly. He knew what to look for.

"3 weeks?" JJ wondered out loud.

"Jen?" Cruz questioned, stepping closer to JJ.

"They intercepted it, so Hotch hasn't been in touch after he said he was. They're just needling. For that matter, if they're intercepting mail three weeks back, then they've been looking into Emily longer than that," JJ reasoned. "Hotch, what's the date on that warrant?"

Hotch checked, "Two days ago. We were in Jacksonville."

"Two days. Hunh." JJ stood up, crossed her arms, and took a couple of pacing steps.

"What does that mean?" Cruz asked. No one answered as the realization set in. "What does that mean?" Cruz asked again.

Hotch tapped the postcard against the table. "It means that's something's happened in the past few days."

"You're gonna have to give your boy the bad news," Watley taunted Hotch, "The mommy-stand-in's not coming home. Unless, of course, you want him to visit her through prison bars. Nice symmetry actually. One mommy in the ground and one almost-mommy in jail."

"You. Do not speak about my son," Hotch threatened. "I am warning you. Nicely. Again." Hotch would not stand for anyone upsetting his son on purpose. Certainly not about Haley. And not about Emily. Wait— "Why would Emily be in prison?"

"Emily?" Watley queried, he'd hit his mark.

"Agent Prentiss," Hotch corrected.

"She's been a bad, bad girl Aaron," Watley gibed.

"Oh right," Morgan scoffed, "the terrorist angle. Please."

Agent Grant cleared his throat. "Remember the video clip I mentioned? Only a small clip was actually shopped around. After Agent Prentiss was recovered, a search of the premises turned up a longer video."

Penelope gasped, "Oh no."

Grant nodded, "Yes. The full video shows some of the…individuals…responsible for Agent Prentiss's…captivity." Grant seemed uncomfortable with this revelation.

He must have seen the video, Hotch surmised. It made him sick to think of what could be on that video. Unfortunately, Hotch didn't have to think too hard to imagine. He needed to compartmentalize this. If he got lost in what could have happened to Emily and how he felt about it, he'd go down the rabbit hole for sure. He had another thought, "How does Prentiss being hurt translate into terrorism?"

"Two of the men in the video turned up dead," Watley leveled at Hotch. "Murdered. With some of the same instruments used on your girl." Hotch could feel the fury rising up inside him. These accusations and insinuations needed to stop. He tried to tamp it down, was almost there; but Richard Watley kept speaking. "What do you people call that? The signature? Some girls just get a taste for certain things, can't let go. Prentiss, she's been rolling around in the sick and twisted for the better part of her adult life. As the saying goes, you lie down in the gutter…"

"What are you insinuating?" Hotch asked through gritted teeth.

"And she's used to lying down, isn't she? She did it for these guys. She did it for Ian Doyle. She's practically a damned whore for the government du jour. There's no loyalty with that one. She does it for the CIA. She does it for Interpol. She does it for MI-6. But she won't do it for you." Watley kept hammering Hotch. "Why not? Why is that Hotchner? What are you lacking that the vile and disgusting men who traffic in women, torture porn, drugs, and guns have? I've read up on you. You get down in the dirt too. You've got blood on your hands. But she still won't give it up to you. What is it you have to do? Next time you see her, Hotchner, take my advice: smack her around a bit. I hear she likes that."

Hotch could feel it coming before his brain caught up. One second he was standing there controlling his rage and his disgust as Watley was spewing his venom. And even still, Hotch knew it was just an interrogation technique; he could see Grant, distinctly watching to see how he would react. He could hear his team in the background urging it to stop. Hotch knew what was going on, but…Emily. Emily, alone and hurt. Emily, scared and battered. Emily. His Emily. Going rogue? For justice. For vengeance? No, this was one indignity too far. Hotch would not allow this, this lower life form of a human being to turn his Emily into an unsub. Before Hotch quite knew what he was doing, he was on Richard Watley; laid him out with one good right hook. Watley hit the ground and Hotch stood back, arms up.

Agent Grant moved forward, handcuffs out, "Aaron Hotchner, you're under arrest for assault on a Federal Agent."

Yep, Hotch thought, played right into their trap. It was worth it though.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

For a full twenty minutes after Hotch was taken away in handcuffs, his team stood and sat, unmoving, in the round table room thinking. Grant had taken the postcards with him; they never got to see or hear about what was on them that was so interesting. Garcia had given them, as she promised Hotch she would, the particulars of the chat room she had set up with Prentiss; so that was probably a dead angle now too. Cruz, who obviously knew something, had left when Watley and Grant took Hotch away, so the team couldn't ask him what he knew about what had just happened. He didn't seem like he knew much of anything though. The team would have to work it out on their own. Each of them was determined, fixated on a portion of what had just happened and what they had learned, trying to put it all together.

JJ was trying to place Richard Watley in her mind. He was State Department. During her cross appointment to the Department of Defense a few years back, she had worked with a lot of people from State. The name sounded vaguely familiar. He didn't look familiar though; she was almost certain they hadn't actually met before. He knew about her role in the Ian Doyle fiasco. But then again, since Emily had returned from protection and Doyle was killed, all of that was declassified thanks to the U.S. Senate. She'd have to make some calls to find out about Watley. The problem there, was any calls she made to find out about Watley would ultimately get back to Watley. State was too big for there to be no leaks and it was prone to gossip. JJ made a mental call sheet, just in case.

Watley and Grant seemed to focus some of their direct questions on JJ, though she dismissed them as likely to be window dressing, verbal subterfuge to make it seem like there weren't only focused on Hotch. JJ herself didn't answer the big questions she was asked. Furthermore, neither Watley nor Grant had said anything to or about her as they were taking Hotch away. Still. They did ask about the toy Emily sent Henry. She wondered if she should call Will; tell him to be on the lookout. Probably not. She'd wait and see on that one. What JJ wasn't worried about, was Emily. Maybe that was naïve, but JJ knew Emily. She knew her as a friend, a confidante, and as an agent. JJ knew that Emily would be able to work this out, whatever it was, before too much longer. And if she wasn't, JJ knew the team would step in. Besides, it sounded as if wherever Emily was, she was currently safe. Safe from the terrorists who had taken her before and safe from whatever "official" channels were trying to accuse her of something. There really wouldn't be anything to worry about anytime soon.

Morgan was fuming. How dare anyone walk into this room and declare Emily Prentiss a terrorist? How can anyone who works in Intelligence possibly not know who she is and what she has done for this country? Dimwits all around, Morgan decided. Especially these two. How dare they? How dare Watley and Grant say those things about Emily? They called her a whore; no one gets to do that. Ever. Morgan did, once, he remembered, during the Ian Doyle mess. Something he'll regret until the day he dies. As long as he lived, no one else would get to call her names like that and get away with it. They would regret it. And Cruz, these guys were brought in by one of theirs. How dare Matt Cruz walk them in here and allow it? Cruz said he 'agreed to a veiled interrogation.' What the hell? Veiled interrogation? Of his own team? Talk about a betrayal. Cruz has been here long enough to know this was not how things were done at the BAU. Christ, Prentiss even saved his ass once! He should know better.

Morgan's mind was jumping from one idea to the next. It totally pissed him off that the CIA knew about this before they did. The CIA! How dare they not loop him into whatever was going on? Okay, them. Them, not him, loop them in. This was not about him, Morgan knew that. But still. He hated the CIA. They left a bad taste in his mouth that just would never go away. In his mind, they'd already failed Emily. He hated that they now had a chance to do it again. He hated that she was working for them again. If she was. If that was true. Lying is a proven interrogation tactic; especially with the way Watley was baiting Hotch. It had to be a lie. She wouldn't. Not again. It wasn't clean; she said so once. How dare they put that thought in his head? How dare they? But most of all, how dare she? If Morgan was being honest with himself right now, it was Emily he was the most furious with.

Morgan's anger at Emily was nearly clouding out everything else that happened today. She got herself embroiled into something way too dangerous. Again. She got herself taken. Again. She was tortured. Again. She didn't tell them. Again. More to the point, she didn't tell him. Again. She was in trouble and she didn't ask for help; she kept it a secret. Morgan hated her a little for that. He brushed right past the fact that the secrecy is clearly a part of her job description now. Past the fact that they no longer worked on the same team and weren't partners anymore. And certainly past the fact there was an ocean between them. An ocean was nothing when it came to family. She should've know that. And he'll tell her that, he promised himself. After he kills her. After he saves her. Because that's what you do for family.

Reid was sitting still, perfectly still, but his mind was making quick work of the four possibilities that Watley and Grant had laid out. 1. Emily was on a covert mission. 2. Emily went rogue on her own mission. 3. Emily went crazy and disappeared (Reid dismissed this one on general principle). And 4. Emily became an unsub (he refused to even think the word "terrorist"). Unfortunately, Reid couldn't immediately rule out any of the other three, even the last one. Emily on a covert mission was the easiest to believe. Her job now was all about missions. Reid thought her current (or recent, he corrected himself) position was more in the planning, strategizing, and supervising role, rather than the active agent role. But then again, maybe not. Interpol was a giant agency, spanning continents. They dealt with terrorists and, though he had joked about it before, international intrigue. Secrecy was key. If Interpol had Prentiss on an active mission, they wouldn't necessarily want to tell anyone else about it. Watley had mentioned MI-6 and the CIA as well. Prentiss's covert mission didn't have to be for Interpol. For the intelligence community, Reid knew, there were multiple levels of covert secrecy. There was the type of mission where you had full backing, funding, and sanctioned authority. This came with a pretty solid guarantee of your agency rescuing you if you got in to too much trouble. Then there was the type of mission that was off-book. A black bag mission, it was called here in the states. This kind of covert operation usually didn't come with a chain of command or a promise of protection. Prentiss had, Reid knew, worked under both conditions before. There were probably various degrees of each. Covert agencies tended to keep their policies and procedures secret as well. That limited his knowledge. The point was, though, that Emily working a covert op wasn't remotely hard to imagine. It wouldn't be difficult for the US government to understand either though. And they, it seemed, weren't buying it.

The second theory, the rogue op, was also quite possible. If Prentiss thought the threat wasn't gone, that it would likely come back and get personal; if there was any possibility that other people would be hurt more than she would, she would definitely consider going on the offensive first. Emily Prentiss was the epitome of an international citizen. She grew up all over the world, speaks more than a few languages fluently, and has worked in intelligence with a multi-national emphasis for years, more than bookending her time with the BAU. Prentiss was not an American Agent hiding out in a foreign country. She was a woman who could be at home anywhere. Given the collected life experiences that Prentiss likely had, Reid reasoned, she wouldn't be working this op alone. Reid didn't know for sure, but he imagined Prentiss had many friends, who did what she did, who would be willing to help. A shadow network, possibly. Reid just hope she knew that the BAU was part of that network.

There were two problems, though, that Reid could see with this very plausible rogue op theory. There were unknowns. Reid hated unknowns. In the abstract, he liked the puzzle. But this was Emily's life; it was entirely concrete and real. No abstraction at all; the unknown was an enemy in this instance. Prentiss was hurt. Reid didn't know how much. Watley and Grant had alluded to significant torture, but they didn't go into details. Reid knew from personal experience, the physical hurt brought on by torture healed first. It took time, but it was relatively easy. The psychological torture, however, was harder and more insidious. It took longer because it lingered; there were twists and turns in the psychological effects that the straightforwardness of the physical body just didn't approach. Emily was tough, Reid knew that. She was quite possibly the toughest individual he had ever met. But everyone, everyone, had a breaking point. Emily would reach hers at some point. Reid just hoped that point was far off in the future.

The second problem, was that they didn't know where Emily was right now. Reid knew, well assumed; he hoped she had a network of people around her, an army of help. But her last rogue op (that they knew about) was the Ian Doyle mess. Prentiss did that almost on her own; with only minimal logistical help from her former team. Spencer also knew that when she was hurting, she chose to sequester herself into a cocoon of her own making till she worked it out. That was troubling. Reid seriously hoped that wasn't happening here. Going it alone might seem noble, but more often than not, it was just stupid. Everybody needed help. The BAU's philosophy was that profiling was a team sport. Emily needed to remember that. No matter what else she was doing now, that didn't change. Once a profiler, always a profiler.

Reid's overly analytical mind took him finally down the last path, the Prentiss as an unsub path. He tried hard to rule this theory out on general principle. Emily Prentiss had a strong ethically-driven moral compass. Reid had learned that about her through their years working together. She would never attack or kill without cause, strong cause and reason. Those things were subjective, cause and reason. In the immediate aftermath of torture, Reid knew from personal experience, cause and reason looked different. Still, no one compartmentalized better than Emily Prentiss. Unfortunately, that was also a mark against her here. Reid learned, they had all learned, during the Doyle mess that those compartmentalization skills also allowed her an ethical flexibility. That was intelligence work. Prentiss had always said she preferred the BAU and its serial killers because they were cleaner than anything she'd done in intelligence. Her ease with unclean could tip her over into what some people would call unsub territory (or, on the international stage, terrorism, Reid allowed himself to think grudgingly). Watley and Grant said that people were dying. More specifically, people involved in the captivity and torture of Emily Prentiss were dying. That was troubling; that was why people were saying she was a terrorist. But. Wait. It was all just a matter of degree, wasn't it? One person's rogue op was another's criminal action. A rogue op, in another context, was a covert op. Intelligence, as Emily had always said, was messy. It was very, very messy. They didn't have all the information; they may never have all the information. Spencer Reid hated that. It was like something was being held out of his reach, being used to taunt him. Reid shook his head and delved back into reason; trying to fortify them all, including Emily, against the rising tide of the unknown.

Kate Callahan didn't know Emily Prentiss, and so therefore was able to be more objective. She was flicking through the same possibilities as Reid. Kate had never worked in intelligence, but she came from the FBI's Child Exploitation Task Force, so she knew messy work, she knew undercover work. She had come to pretty much the same conclusions as Reid, just without the emotional impact. Kate quickly moved on to analyzing Hotch's current situation. Kate didn't think Hotch was in that much actual trouble here. It was somewhat concerning that they took him in at all. True, Hotch had slugged Watley, but… Grant had arrested him on the charge of "assaulting a federal agent." Technically, Richard Watley was not an agent. He was State Department. No one in the room seemed to actually know who he was, so Kate reasoned, he couldn't be that high up on the org chart. He must be a mid-level attaché, or some kind of assistant to an under-secretary maybe. The charge wasn't going to stick. Watley and Grant had to know that when they arrested him. That meant they wanted him off BAU turf, and alone, for some other reason. That was concerning. Especially with the way Watley had been baiting Hotch since the moment he stepped into the room. There was something underneath all of that. Was it personal in some way? It had to be, but how? And for whom? They needed to know, and they didn't yet.

Rossi looked around at his team. They all looked disheartened. The type of disheartened that came with the sudden realization of being behind in a game they didn't yet know they were playing. Rossi sighed. He was concerned for Emily. The last time he had talked to her must have been just after she was rescued from the failed undercover. If the timeline given to them by Watley and Grant was correct. Rossi was reserving his judgment on that one just yet. She had sounded like something was off, but never gave him even the slightest hint of the enormity of what she'd been through. Damn it kid, Rossi thought. When would she learn? She had people who loved her and would be there for her no matter what. He hated to think of her going through any of this by herself. He hoped, wherever she was, that she wasn't alone.

It was interesting to Rossi that Watley and Grant had settled on Hotch's and JJ's last communications with Emily as significant, but not his. He'd been in touch with her right around the same time as Hotch had. Hotch, it seemed, had only received a text message while he, Rossi, had had a full phone conversation. Yet the focus was on Hotch, pretty much completely. Even JJ was just a lead-in and a footnote. Interesting. Watley and Grant clearly were focused on the relationship between Hotch and Emily as something important. What relationship? As far as Rossi knew, they were friends. Though, he might have to adjust his thinking. It certainly seemed as if that friendship might have been tightening over the past year. One thing made sense now, at least. Hotch had let it slip, about six months ago, that he had broken up with Beth. The distance plus cooling feelings had not done good things for the two of them. Rossi gave it a couple of weeks, then started badgering Hotch to accept a few of his blind date offers. After a month or so of Hotch turning him down, Rossi gave up. If his friend wanted to be a hermit for a little while, he'd let him. But perhaps it wasn't hermit-hood that Hotch wanted. That thought made Rossi smile. David Rossi was a romantic; who else would get married three times and still believe in the possibility of a lasting love. He hoped his two best friends could it together. You know, after everyone was safe and back home. Rossi was imagining that future when he heard a frustrated sound to his left. Garcia.

Garcia, after a few minutes of overwhelmed panic, had reached for her laptop and began furiously tapping the keys. The chat room she had given State and Homeland was to be discarded, definitely. Pen had other, more covert, means of contacting Emily though. About a year ago, Emily had reached out to Garcia for help with one of her cases. It was off the books help and Emily didn't want it going through any official channels. They had set up a series of protocols, should they ever need to get in touch this way again. They rarely used them, but still. Garcia was frustrated because she wasn't getting a response to any of them now. It was the little bit of anarchist hacker still left in her soul that made her keep this information from Watley and Grant just now, but also from her team. She had felt guilt about that before. Right now, though, that guilt was reforming as gratitude.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, another thought began to take over her mental space. The video. It showed Emily possibly, probably, being hurt. Tortured. Garcia definitely did not want to lay her eyes on it. But. Grant had said that it also showed some of the men responsible for hurting Emily. The team would need that so she'd have to find it. On second thought, Emily wouldn't want them to see it. She'd be adamant, if she were here right now, that none of them look at it. She'd be mortified. Even though it wasn't her fault, even though she'd done nothing wrong. She'd be mortified. Penelope was torn; she let out a strangled sob and closed her eyes. She didn't know what to do right now. She felt someone cover her hand and squeeze. She opened her eyes. Rossi was smiling kindly at her. She smiled back. This was Emily and Garcia would be as strong as she needed.

"Well. It's nice to see you lot are doing absolutely nothing."

The team looked up at the unexpected new voice. There was a hint of sarcasm in it that they all recognized, but upon seeing the owner of the voice. Not one of them recognized the man now standing in the doorway to the round table room. He was tall, at least six feet. Athletically built with short cropped dirty blonde hair and crystal clear blue eyes. Those eyes, beautiful as they were, were surveying the room in a cold as steel manner.

Rossi released Pen's hand and stood up. "Who are you?" he demanded. The team had enough of unwanted and unannounced visitors today.

"You are David Rossi?" the handsome stranger queried.

"I am," Rossi spit out, "who the hell are you?"

The man gave a small chuckle, as if placating a petulant child, "I am Alastair Endicott Thorne." "The Third," he added when no recognition dawned.

What? The remains of the BAU team stared at him. He spoke with a British accent. Given everything that had happened today, that probably meant MI-6. Excellent. Just what they needed.

"I'm looking for Aaron Hotchner," Thorne continued, more businesslike, when nobody responded to his introduction.

Morgan stood up to join Rossi, "Sorry man, you just missed him. A few of your stateside cronies already got him. He was arrested about half an hour ago."

Thorne narrowed his eyes at Morgan, then shifted his gaze upward. "Blast!" he swore. "Excuse me for just a second," he said as he took a step away and pulled out his phone. Thorne tapped out the numbers of his call as he shook his head. He waited for whoever was on the other end of the phone to pick up. He seemed frustrated when it took longer than he wanted for the call to be picked up; eventually, though, the call was answered.

"I'm too late. Hotchner's been arrested already." Thorne pressed his lips together, as if he was in pain from whatever the other person was saying. "Biscuit. Biscuit, calm down," he soothed. "What do you want me to do?"

The team looked at each other, confused. What the hell was going on now?

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Morgan and Rossi exchanged a look. Perhaps they'd been wrong about this guy. The way he was speaking on the phone, it really didn't sound like he was looking for Hotch to cause him any grief. Everyone was curious, but silent, as they waited for Thorne to finish up his phone call. Hopefully then, he'd explain what the hell was going on. He certainly seemed to have more information than they did.

"What do you want me to do about Hotchner?" Thorne repeated into the phone. Thorne listened to his phone companion for about thirty seconds before he began to look agitated again. "Okay, breathe. Just breathe. Short, medium breaths. That's it. Just breathe. In and out. There you go. Where are you? Maybe you should go back to bed?" Thorne seemed to be all but pleading.

He changed tactics, "Where were you when I called? It took five rings for you to come to the phone. That's too long, Biscuit." The person on the other end of the phone said something to make him smile. He smiled broadly, and despite where he was, the audience he had, he seemed to relax a little in that moment. "I'll call you what I want. And then some too. … Damn right, okay."

He was joking, MI-6 was joking. Rossi was getting irritated all over again; he let out a breath to communicate that irritation. It worked; Thorne took himself out of the bubble of his phone call long enough to glance at Rossi and take his meaning.

"Okay, then that's what I'll do. But Biscuit," Thorne moved to close the door as he returned his attention back to his phone. "Remember what I said though. If it's State who's got Hotchner, then I can grab him. But if Homeland's got him," Thorne shook his head, "it will be trickier." Thorne looked around the room, trying to take in anything he could from the others in the room. "I don't yet know why he was arrested. … Okay, yes, we know why. I meant, I don't know what the charge is. You give me a little room to maneuver and I'll do my best okay? … Okay love, can you put either Marcus or Bragg on the phone? … Whichever one's closer. … Okay, I will. Will you please rest now? Thank you."

Thorne paced, a couple of steps, waiting for the phone to change hands. When he spoke again, his whole demeanor was different. He no longer sounded like the sweet, joking but concerned, protective friend he just was on the phone. He didn't sound like the 'look how charming I am' guy who first walked into the room either. Instead, Thorne was all business. He was calculating, a little cold, insisting, and straight to the point. Kind of like Hotch, Rossi thought. Interesting.

"What is it you have her doing?" Thorne demanded. "She was winded, practically hysterical, and too far away from the sat-phone. … I want her as close to fully operational as possible Bragg. What she went through, a lesser person would never be the same. She's special, understand. But if you push her too hard too fast, you'll break her. Then we'll be nowhere. … I know she needs to recover physically too, but Jesus! Do you have her running a damn obstacle course out there? … Whatever you're doing with her, stop. Stop it now; it's too much. She's not a damn soldier. … Yeah. Listen, have Marcus find out which one of these idiotic American agencies is holding Hotchner, will ya? Text me when you have it. The sooner the better. … And Bragg, pray for State. I don't want to have to tell her we couldn't do it. She won't take that well." Thorne hung up the phone with a sort of grunt and looked to his audience. Six faces, all with one question.

"Yes," Thorne confirmed, "I have Emily."

Reid was the quickest, "When you say you "have" Emily, what does that mean? Exactly?" He had been inching forward in his chair throughout Thorne's phone call. If the call went on any longer, Reid would have been crawling up on the table. He needed an answer to this question, as they all did.

Thorne looked at Reid, trying to determine if he was asking a serious question or just screwing with him. Ultimately Thorne decided the genius was serious. "I mean that I, and my team, rescued her from Istanbul in the first place. And after that, when things started to go from bad to worse, I took her off the grid and relocated her to an undisclosed location. So when I say I "have" her, I mean it completely. I have her; I have her back; I have her recovery; I have her physical person. That's it. Exactly."

"Okay, so answer the initial question then," demanded Morgan, "who the hell are you?"

"He means," Rossi cut in when Thorne raised his eyebrow at Morgan, "who are you to Emily, and how do we know we can trust you?"

"And since we're asking," JJ spoke up, "where is Emily? What happened to her? And what the hell's going on now?"

"What did you mean when you said 'my team' exactly?" asked Garcia.

"And hey, since we're asking for things," Kate added, "Why does WHERE Hotch is now matter more in the ability to get him released than WHAT he was arrested for in the first place?"

"Inquisitive bunch," Thorne remarked wryly.

"You don't know the half of it," Rossi quipped. "Start talking."

"Do these doors lock?" Thorne asked, casually walking back to the closed door he entered from. He checked, then locked the door. "Good. Hey sport, you wanna be a dear and lock that other one?"

"Are you talking to me?" Morgan asked, incredulous.

Great, thought Rossi, Mr. Too-Charming was back. The team was not going to like that. Rossi hoped this part of the program ended soon.

Thorne winked at Morgan, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, "Yep."

"I'm not your sport," Morgan retorted as he locked the other door.

"Maybe not. But you did it." Thorne was having too much fun here and it was grating. On everyone.

"Should we get Cruz?" JJ asked, before Morgan could formulate a response.

"I'm gonna ask you to hold off on that Peaches," Thorne said quickly. "Just for now."

"Why?" JJ asked. "He's on our side."

"Of course he is," Thorne reassured her. And then, "Maybe." JJ looked like she was going to rebut that idea, but Thorne beat her to the punch. "How were Homeland and State able to get their hands on Hotchner? Now, maybe that was just protocol. Probably, that was just protocol. But until I know that for sure, I'm closing the loop."

"We trust him." JJ insisted.

"How nice for you." Thorne looked hard for a moment, then broke out into a smile. "Anyway, who says I even trust you lot?"

"But Emily does. And she's calling the shots," guessed Rossi.

"Yes," Thorne nodded. "Well, mostly."

"What does that mean?" Reid jumped in. He was working on the theory that Prentiss was running a rogue (possibly with some kind of shadowy consent) operation. If she wasn't calling the shots, his theory might be wrong.

"The trauma she suffered was significant." Thorne gave them a telling look. "She isn't yet back to full function and capability."

Rossi was concerned by Thorne's matter-of-factness just now. It sounded like too much of an official line. That kind of line, Rossi knew from experience, was just official enough to smooth over the truth. He frowned.

Thorne, off Rossi's look, backpedaled, "She's getting better. My team and I are working on that too." Then, in an effort to change the subject, continued. "Emily trusts you; that's a good start for me. Well, that and the background checks I did on each of you on the plane into the states."

"From where?" Morgan demanded. "You said you "had" Prentiss. Where do you have her?"

"I'm gonna leave that undisclosed location undisclosed for now sport," Thorne answered, immediately regretting his choice of nicknames, putting his hands up in apology. "It's safer for her if nobody knows where she is. This way you can't be compelled to reveal it." Thorne pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. "As to the rest of your queries, let me try to answer them."

The team exchanged looks. It seemed as if they might actually get some real information about what was going on and what happened to Emily. This was good. This was progress. Rossi knew he could keep this team together in Aaron's absence, at least as long as it took to hear the story. Depending on what they heard, all bets might be off after that.

"First," Thorne began, "I've known Emily Prentiss since she was eight years old. I'm an old family friend. She trusts me implicitly. You can too."

"All the same, mate," Morgan said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. He didn't like being given nicknames by people he didn't know. "I'd prefer to hear that from Emily."

Thorne looked at Morgan, a short battle of wills. Thorne gave up, it wasn't worth it. "This'll go faster if I'm not interrupted." He paused to consider Morgan. "She said you'd be difficult. Emily. She called it."

Morgan looked affronted. He wasn't being difficult, he was just looking out for his family. He was getting angrier and angrier that she had given that role to someone else.

"Besides," Thorne added, looking at Garcia, "My connection to the Prentiss's is in the public record. Miss Penelope can look it up herself." He smiled at Garcia, who smiled back. She liked this British James Bond Man, which was how she was thinking of him. Emily trusted him and that was good enough for her. "If you need outside corroboration," he tossed at Morgan. "May I continue?"

Morgan gave him the floor, silently. He tried to keep his re-mounting anger under control. The situation would not be helped by him going off right now.

"As I was saying," Thorne continued. "I'm an old friend of the family. I went to boarding school with Garrison Prentiss."

"The older brother who died?" Garcia clarified.

Thorne tried not to look annoyed at the interruption. "Yes. He and I were close, best mates through school and University until he died. I graduated Cambridge without him. But his family and I stayed close. Emily in particular." He chuckled to himself a moment. "She always needed looking after that one." Thorne paused for a moment. Whatever he was remembering there, he very obviously wasn't going to share with the team. "Anyway. Moving on. After Cambridge, I joined the military. I worked my way up and through the SAS by way of the parachute regiment. Until I retired from the military. Then I went on to do other things."

Rossi let out a whistle. He was impressed. Emily's friend Thorne was an elite paratrooper and a member of the Special Air Service. He was the cream of the British Special Forces crop. That was like a Navy Seal mixed with a Green Beret and an Army Ranger combined. They could do worse for an ally.

Thorne nodded at Rossi. "I don't give you my resume to make an impression. Rather to drive home the fact that I know what I'm doing here and you should trust me."

Garcia was looking at him with stars in her eyes, this James Bond Man. Emily sure had the coolest friends. "What other things?"

"What?" Reid asked her.

"He said he went on to do other things," she answered, still mooning over Alastair Thorne, just a little.

Thorne smiled. "Things. Things that put me in a position to run into Emily, from time to time, all over the globe. I helped her out in the early days of Ian Doyle. She saved my ass once in Russia. We ran across each other in Paris. And a few other things here and there, more recently." Shrewd, Thorne was shrewd. He was testing them.

The team had tightened up at the mention of Ian Doyle. That whole thing still caused friction. None of them wanted to admit that, but it did. Except for Callahan, who had only read about it. Looking directly at Thorne, she stated more than asked, "Other Things is code for MI-6?" Thorne continued to smile.

Son of a bitch, thought Rossi. He called it. What he didn't know, however, was whether that meant they could trust him with Emily.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

While the team was getting to know Alastair Thorne, Hotch was getting to know a different side of Mr. Richard Watley and Agent Max Grant. The more invisible side. He had been sitting on the wrong side of an interrogation table, now, for about thirty minutes. He was alone in the room. No one had stepped in since they deposited him here with an overly casual, "we'll be right back." They were letting him stew. It was so obvious, it was painful. These guys thought they were going to out-profile him? Please. He was sure one, or both, of them was behind the mirror. Watching. He would've been. Then again, if Hotch were in their place and someone else was sitting where he was, Hotch decided he'd have put someone in the room. Someone with a quiet menace so the suspect couldn't ignore the seriousness. But not someone who was outwardly aggressive. That would send the wrong signal because that message kills the larger— Hotch's thought stopped abruptly. Well damn, he thought. That was exactly what Grant's job was back at the BAU. Maybe these guys weren't as amateurish as he first thought.

He chuckled to himself and shook his head slightly. At least he wasn't cuffed to the table. Hotch almost found this amusing. He would have, except. Except that he still didn't know what was going on with Emily. He didn't know what Watley and Grant were going to come back with. It had to be something big though. There was no other reason to provoke and bait him like Watley had been doing; there was no other reason to actually arrest him on such a ridiculous charge. Hotch generally preferred to have more information than he currently did. He'd have to wait until they came back and then profile them on the fly. They had played it oddly back at the BAU. Watley had been so animated and antagonistic that it almost seemed like an act. Almost, except Hotch sensed that was at least partially real. He had seen it in the man's body language. Grant had been the opposite, practically blasé, if it weren't for his constant drawing attention to his sidearm. But that was strategy, or was it? Hotch had decided that Grant was playing a particular part. He wasn't so sure about Watley. Watley wasn't an agent; he didn't have the same training. He was a diplomat and a politician (probably), hard as that was to fathom. The man had very few social graces as far as Hotch could tell. Still, there they had had an audience; that always changes the profile read. Hotch would get a cleaner impression here, with just the three of them. At least he assumed they would both be back. There were two chairs on the other side of the table. It struck Hotch that Watley wouldn't want to miss his interrogation (unless he was more of an actor than Hotch gave him credit for) and he certainly wouldn't be qualified to do it alone.

The thing about this whole ridiculous ordeal that irritated Hotch the most, was Emily. He didn't know what her game was, what moves she was making. That meant he didn't know how to help her. He didn't know if the things he would say, or not say, here would hurt her or by how much. Generally speaking, for the suspect, it was usually best not to say anything at all. However, for a profiler, that wasn't really the modus operandi for this exact situation. Hotch would learn more by engaging with whomever was in the room. From the relatively little Watley and Grant had actually given him, this seemed to be a National Security issue. That meant the Patriot Act. If that was truly the case, then saying nothing actually could do significantly more harm than not. That, right there, was the other potentially game-changing aspect of this little powder keg. He'd like to think that he would do anything he could in order to help Emily out of whatever situation she was currently embroiled in. He absolutely would. Except his 'absolute' wasn't entirely absolute. He was bound by law. Law and an ethical code. He'd run into this problem before, with the Ian Doyle case. Clyde Easter, Emily's Interpol colleague (Hotch really hated to think of that man as her friend, even though he knew that he was), had questioned his oath, his integrity, and his commitment to Emily's well-being. Here they are again, potentially, and Hotch didn't know if he'd be able to make a different choice with respect to his own course of action. Hotch's current mission was safety, protection, and law enforcement. Emily's was… Intelligence was a whole different world. Emily's mission was secrets, knowledge, and (sometimes) the wielding of power by any means necessary. Hopefully that came out on the side of right more often than not. Ethics was usually absent from that mix; it wasn't from his.

That wasn't entirely fair though. Emily Prentiss was an ethical person. With a preternatural ability to compartmentalize and rationalize. That's what made her so suitable for Intelligence work. She was a good person. If she was doing something that others deemed "not good," illegal, or dare he think, terrorist, he knew she'd have a damn good reason for it.

Damn it Emily, Hotch thought. Why hadn't she come to him? Why hadn't she left him any clues? Why the hell hadn't she told him about what she had been through in the first damn place! He was running hot; Hotch really needed to calm down, get his emotions in check. Take a page out of Emily's book and compartmentalize. Now. This was exactly why those two idiots had left him in here all alone for so long. He was walking right into it, again. Stop – Now, he thought. Deep breath in. And out. Put the face back into a neutral mask. There you go, he thought. Okay, he was back. God, this really annoyed him. Did she not trust him? Hotch thought they had re-built a pretty good friendship over the past several months. Why did she have to do this again? Go off and handle something on her own without telling anyone. He really thought she was past this sort of behavior. She shouldn't've left the team when she did, he couldn't help but think. He could have fixed this behavior by now. Then again, she usually saw this type of action as a self-sacrifice of some sort to save or protect someone else. He wouldn't want to "fix" that. That instinct didn't need to be fixed. It was one of the character traits he admired most about Emily Prentiss.

Hotch was getting fed up with waiting. He needed to act. Before he could, though, he had to have more information. That involved getting someone in the damn room with him. He had an idle thought, and let the tiniest of grins cross his expression briefly. He put his head in his left hand and slumped over a little. He let the fingers on his right hand skim lightly back and forth over the tabletop. Sure enough, a moment later, the door opened and Watley and Grant were both walking through it. Hotch suppressed an eye roll. Show a little powerless behavior and the uninitiated will jump on it. Neither of these guys (Watley and Grant) were master-interrogators. That was good; it would be easier. Now he had a plan. As he was sitting up though, Hotch caught sight of someone else behind the door that made his blood run a little colder, someone that gave his brain a laser-like focus. Senator Cramer. Son of a bitch.

Senator Cramer was the man behind the Senate investigation of the BAU after Ian Doyle. Cramer seemed like he was on a witch hunt for Emily Prentiss back then, three years ago. Hotch sometimes thought, when he allowed himself the indulgence, that Cramer was one of the forces pushing Prentiss out of the BAU (and out of the country) for good. She would never admit to that, but Hotch secretly thought that may be. When Emily left, the team gave up on paying attention to Cramer. Had that been a mistake? Had the Senator been harboring a grudge this whole time? Had Cramer continued his witch hunt? This changed things. Hotch needed to be very, very careful.

Watley and Grant were oblivious to Hotch's change in focus and demeanor. "So Hotchner," Watley asked as he sat down, "been enjoying your alone time?" Hotch stared at him until Watley grew uncomfortable under the gaze. It didn't take long before Watley was shuffling his files around and looking away. Hotch hid his smirk.

"Agent," Grant took over, "Tell us about Declan Doyle."

What? Hotch did a double-take, from Watley to Grant. What did a high school kid have to do with anything? Especially a kid from a long-done case. Though given Cramer's presence, maybe it wasn't long-done for everybody. Hotch needed to gain control of this. He leveled his eyes at Grant and returned smoothly, "Don't you mean Declan Prentiss?"

"So you know about that?" Grant asked.

"I do. Agent Prentiss adopted him about a year ago," Hotch answered.

"Why?" Grant queried.

Hotch was annoyed. They were going to make him sit through more of the showmanship that they had put on at the BAU. Fine. Hotch would play along. But only so far. "As I'm sure you know," he began, "Tom Kohler was raising Declan since Agent Prentiss put him into protection, along with Doyle's housekeeper Louise. Louise was killed three years ago when Declan's biological mother came looking for him. Kohler since developed terminal cancer and passed away. Agent Prentiss adopted him." "As she was always meant to do," Hotch couldn't help but add.

"Yeah," needled Watley, "Ms. Prentiss is mother of the year."

This time Hotch didn't rise to the bait. He had to be smarter. Instead, Hotch rather passively shifted his weight in the chair and looked at Watley in what he hoped was a non-aggressive manner. "The kid had no one and nowhere to go. Why would Agent Prentiss want to disrupt his life by putting him into the Foster System?"

"Why, Agent Hotchner?" Grant pulled Hotch's attention back, "Why, indeed?"

"You're on record for having visited the kid a few times at his boarding school. Why would you do that?" Watley asked. Hotch could sense there was trouble ahead, though the question seemed to be genuine. "Did Ms. Prentiss ask you to?"

"Why do you keep calling her Ms.?" Hotch returned. "Her title is Agent." He was very big on respect for his team.

"It's not," Watley fired back, almost immediately, "as we've already told you. _Ms_. Prentiss is no longer employed by Interpol."

Watley faced off with Hotch until Grant put an end to the glares. "Could you please answer the question Agent Hotchner?"  
>Hotch reluctantly pulled his attention from Watley to Grant. "Yes she did, the first time."<p>

"Why?" Grant prodded.

"There were legal papers, about the change in custody, which Declan needed to sign. She asked me to look them over first and then bring them to Declan so I could answer any questions he might have." Hotch's sense of uneasiness was growing.

"That's right," Watley mused, "you used to be a lawyer."

"Okay. Fine. But why go back?" Grant continued his line of questioning as if Watley had never spoken. They were an interesting pair.

"Declan's just a kid. His parents, for all intents and purposes, were dead and/or dying. Agent Prentiss is far away in Europe. He's all alone and potentially still a target." Hotch couldn't get a read on Agent Grant and this particular line of inquiry. That bothered him. "So I visit from time to time. The school's in Virginia. I'm close."

Grant nodded. "You've even taken Jack." It was a statement, not a question.

Whoa. Hotch leveled his eyes at Grant. After a moment, he responded, measured. ""A few times. Jack likes soccer. Declan plays for his school team."

"How sweet," Watley crowed. "A ready-made family." Hotch glared at Watley. In this moment, Watley seemed immune. "If only mommy would just come home."

This time Hotch didn't rise. Watley kept using derivations of 'mother' when he talked about Emily, or Hotch's lack of Emily. That could be telling. Hotch filed it away to make use of later. Instead, he addressed Agent Grant. "What is your point?"

"Declan Doyle Prentiss is missing. He disappeared from his boarding school." Grant was watching Hotch closely.

"Gentlemen," Hotch began, "Agent Prentiss is his legal guardian; she has full custody." This was about to go sideways, he could tell. He just didn't know how much. "If she wants to remove her son from school, she has every right."

"But Agent Hotchner," Watley said sweetly, too sweetly, "She didn't."

"She couldn't have Agent Hotchner," Grant clarified, "Declan disappeared right after Agent Prentiss was rescued from Istanbul. She was still in the hospital. It's documented." Grant was still watching him too closely. "Someone else took Declan. Someone here. In Virginia."

"And as you said," Watley tagged on, "Europe is far away. And you're close."

It got very quiet in that interrogation room. Hotch could hear everyone breathing. This is it, he thought. This is what they think they have.

Agent Grant was talking again. "Prentiss made some questionable moves around that time. She made some intriguing financial transactions. She filed a new Last Will and Testament. It includes provisos for a Living Will. From her hospital room."

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment. He had to shut everything out and concentrate.

"She gave you custody of her son." Grant announced. "She made you her medical and legal proxy. She named you the executor of her estate." The dominos were starting to fall.

"Should anything happen to her, of course," Watley tacked on.

Hotch opened his eyes. Was that actually a threat?

"Agent Hotchner," Grant asked, "where is the boy? Hotch turned his eyes to Grant. Grant continued, "Wherever he is, she's likely to be nearby. So I'll repeat the question: where is the boy?"

"I don't have him." Hotch said quietly.

"That's unfortunate Hotchner," Watley said, with what sound to Hotch an awful lot like enthusiasm, "Because if you don't have him; if you didn't take him, then Emily Prentiss set you up!"

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**

Hi everyone. I'm sorry for the delay, I hope you're still with me! We are starting to get some answers now and exciting things will be coming soon. Thank you so much for the reviews and follows, they really mean a lot.

**Chapter 7**

The team was still waiting for Thorne to tell them the story of what exactly was going on with Emily. He seemed to keep delaying, or being delayed. He had gotten a phone call a moment ago and was taking it in another language. It sounded like it might be Arabic or Farsi; whatever language it was wasn't spoken by any remaining member of the team. Thorne was looking agitated though. That couldn't be a good sign. In the meantime, Reid and Kate decided to take this time to fill everyone else in on what they had been thinking, with respect to the four theories on Emily (covert op, rogue op, crazy, terrorist). They all agreed that option 3, that she had had some type of mental break, was not likely. Emily, as an agent and as a person, had a healthy ability to compartmentalize; she was legendary there. She had been hurt and tortured before. Granted, they didn't know how bad it was this time, but she'd been through something at least similar several times before. Her trauma, no matter how bad it was, wasn't likely to result in a break. None of them could get on board with option 4: terrorist. It just didn't, in any way shape or form, measure up to the woman they all knew. Reid just hoped they weren't being naïve. They all agreed that Prentiss had to be on either a covert operation or a rogue operation. They really couldn't be sure. Garcia had offered to do a little of her 'special' investigating, but Rossi put a stop to that thought. You don't hack into intelligence agencies, without higher authorization, in this day and age without expecting some serious Gitmo-sized consequences. They didn't need any more of that right now.

Thorne hung up his phone and turned back to the group, "where was I?" he asked.

"At the beginning," Rossi answered him, shortly. This guy was trying his patience. "Get on with it already."

"Right." Thorne looked at Rossi, then around at everyone else. He saw six nearly identical expressions. Frustration, annoyance, and desperation. He'd stalled long enough. He had hoped to tell this story only once, but Hotchner had been arrested before he arrived. Thorne couldn't retrieve him until he knew for certain who was holding the Unit Chief, and that information hadn't come in yet. The remaining team members didn't seem too keen on waiting any longer.

"Okay. Keep in mind, that I'm sure I don't know the whole story. You can be damn sure that Emily hasn't told me everything there is to know. She plays it close to the vest, that one." Thorne hedged. There were parts to this story he knew but didn't want to tell them. And parts to this story that he knew Emily didn't want them to know. He was also certain that he hadn't been lying; there were probably parts of this story that he simply did not know.

"Actually first," JJ cut in as Thorne was about to begin, "what was that phone call about?" she asked him. JJ had her feelers up. Something was off. Okay, everything was off. But something about that call, and Thorne seeming like he was finally going to give them some real news, was, well, off-off.

Thorne eyed JJ suspiciously. Well, he decided, if he was going to brief them, he might as well brief them. "It was an update from a source. I need to keep tabs on several key players. They're mobile, and some of them are getting squirrelly."

"You didn't have to speak in code," Morgan tossed out petulantly. He did not like this guy. This guy who Emily trusted more than she trusted Morgan. Again. Apparently.

"It wasn't code, Agent Morgan. It was Arabic. Are you so xenophobic that you assume everyone on the planet speaks English? I assure you, that little apocalypse hasn't happened yet." Ignorant Americans. Thorne was really getting tired of Morgan's childish pouting. Emily had undersold it.

"So Prentiss is definitely outside London then?" Reid began. He was about to go on a roll. "Because, while I don't speak the language myself, I have heard it spoken. The dialect you were speaking had a particular cadence to it. That could be a personal affectation or pronunciation problem on your part, but it sounded like a North African cadence. If I had to guess, I'd say Morocco, Algeria, or Tunisia." Reid finished and looked to Thorne for corroboration. When Thorne didn't immediately respond, Reid added, "Right?"

"Yes, Dr. Reid," Thorne said, tight-lipped. None of these people would let him finish. If they didn't mean so much to Emily, Thorne swore he'd walk out and leave them all to their questions and speculations. "While I will NOT tell you exactly where she is, yes, Dr. Reid. Emily is no longer in London. The UK was toxic for her. Europe was too close. Interpol, as I'm sure you know, is primarily a European entity; and I couldn't exactly bring her here. North Africa is dangerous, but relatively easy to get lost in. We both have contacts there."

"And why couldn't you bring her here?" Rossi wanted answers and he wanted them now. He didn't much care what order they came in. "We can protect her."

Thorne exhaled. "No you can't." He looked around the room, stopping at each member of the BAU. "Or maybe it's more accurate to say you won't."

"Like hell, we won't," Morgan grumbled.

"I meant," Thorne continued testily, "You can't protect her right now. Not from where you sit. You are all sworn agents of the American government."

"So?" JJ asked.

"So. Em's about to be put on the No-Fly List; as in the Terrorist Watch List." Thorne let that bomb drop. He didn't have to wait long.

"No way!" exclaimed Reid. "That list is coordinated by several branches of government. It's not a fast process. You could have moved her into the country. There has to be another reason. What is it?"

Thorne sighed. "There are several reasons Em is better off out of the country right now. The No-Fly is one, her mother is another—"

"What does her mother have to do with this?" Reid interrupted.

Thorne gave him a knowing look, "Ambassador Prentiss is very obviously in a tight spot right now. The woman's professional career has largely been in the Middle East and Europe, both areas where her daughter is a person of interest in international terror activities at the moment. It's safe to say, the Ambassador is under surveillance. It is not safe to say, that the Ambassador would harbor said daughter in this situation. She's a little bit of a wild card."

"Agent Prentiss's mother would turn her over?" Kate asked. She hadn't been here that long and didn't know the Prentiss's or their history.

"Maybe," Thorne answered. Kate looked to the team, most of them nodded in agreement.

"Not to mention," Thorne continued, "that said daughter is an international operative, having worked with various global intelligence organizations across her long and storied career. Including the American FBI. You'll soon be under orders to bring her in on sight. Terrorist label and all. Everyone is looking for her. I thought it best to park here where there were few operatives doing the looking." Thorne was disgusted and made no attempt to cover his disgust. How unbelievably short-sighted the politicians were being. "The States aren't safe for her. She's safest where she is right now."

"Untill?" Rossi prodded.

"What are you getting at?" Morgan asked him.

"On that first phone call, he was talking to his partner about Prentiss's recovery training." Rossi reminded Morgan. Then he looked to Thorne, figuring something out. "You're gearing her up for something."

Alastair Thorne stared down the weathered man. The way Emily spoke of David Rossi, Thorne had expected him to be some sort of snarky amalgamation of Tony Stark, George Clooney, and everybody's favorite big brother. But all Thorne saw now was a man who was deeply concerned about a loved one and trying to cover it with swagger. Thorne smiled at Rossi. A real smile, not the overconfident smirk he's been sporting with the team. He knew Rossi, in particular, was very close to Emily.

"Yes," Thorne said simply. "I am gearing her up, as you put it. We need her at a fighting weight and she's not there yet. My team is re-conditioning her; re-awakening her training and instincts. They are currently at one of our dark bases." Then looking at Reid, "In North Africa."

"Dark bases?" Garcia asked without looking up from her laptop. What she was doing was more important than eye contact.

It was Reid who answered her, "Covert bases. Secret bases in undisclosed locations. Intelligence organizations have them hidden away all over the world."

"Right," Thorne confirmed.

"Fighting weight? You need her at a fighting weight?" Morgan sneered. "She's not a weapon."

"That's where you're wrong, Agent Morgan, that is exactly what she is." Thorne and Morgan stared each other down, neither one budging.

JJ cleared her throat; they didn't need this kind of posturing right now. It wasn't useful. "Explain yourself," she demanded.

Thorne kept his eyes on Morgan, but he did start talking. "She absolutely is a weapon. Think about it, what is the definition of a weapon?"

Reid answered, of course, by rote, "any instrument or device for use in attack or defense in combat, fighting, or war. Anything used against an opponent, adversary, or victim. Any part or organ serving for attack or defense, as claws, horns, teeth, or stings."

Everyone looked to Reid, as per usual. Some looks were patronizing, some were exasperated, and some were kind.

"Thanks Webster," retorted Rossi. "Keep talking."

"What I mean is," Thorne continued, "She is off the grid right now; I took her off the board, I had to. She needs the time to recover and regroup. We are gathering intel and figuring out this damn conspiracy. We're not sure who all the players are just yet. We need that intel before we make our next move." The team was listening to Thorne with rapt attention. Even Garcia had looked up from her laptop, stopping her typing. Thorne continued, "But we also can't have anyone thinking she's slinking off into the shadows to disappear. I had my boys start a little disinformation campaign. Rumors and whispers of where she is, what she's doing, and who she's going after. Emily is a weapon right now, the scariest kind of weapon. She's a ghost. She's a cipher and she'll remain in the shadows until we're ready to strike for real."

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Kate, who had been mostly silent, asked a question. "What did you mean, conspiracy?"

Thorne sighed. "Okay. This all started with an Interpol mission. It was a surveillance op on a Turkish splinter cell of some fly-by-night jihadist group. They're a dime a dozen in that part of the world. The op was nothing special. Except. The surveillance turned up something hinky."

"Hinky?" asked Rossi.

"Hinky. As in, the cell wasn't acting like normal jihadists. They didn't seem to be interested in nationalist targets. They weren't martyrs. Their religious rhetoric was entirely canned. Something just felt off. So the easy surveillance op turned into an undercover op."

"Emily went in," JJ surmised.

"She did," Thorne confirmed. "She's got the skills. And the languages. Well, it paid off, she was under for only two days maybe before she confirmed that the cell was not on a jihad. They were traffickers. Women, drugs, guns. You name it, they probably had a hand in it. The Jihad was just a front. Interpol recrafted the mission and gave Em a new protocol. Part of this included a strategy for if she was discovered."

"Isn't that standard procedure?" JJ asked. While she was with the DOD, and during her time in Afghanistan, she was involved with several intelligence ops.

"It is. But, this particular strategy is rarely used when an operative is undercover alone. It's dangerous and has the potential for catastrophe." Thorne was starting to get upset. This part of the story still made him particularly angry.

"What was it?" Rossi was starting to draw some conclusions of his own.

"A little tactic called 'Reverse Interrogation.' " Thorne said with disgust.

"What's that?" Reid asked. "In her undercover role, Prentiss gets the cell members to talk to her?"

Thorne looked at Reid in disbelief and shook his head. He released a breath he hadn't realized he was still holding.

"No Spencer," Rossi said quietly. "Reverse Interrogation is where an undercover lets themselves be…interrogated…in order to pick up any clues or tells from the interrogator that might give that undercover an idea of what's being planned."

Thorne picked up the thread when Rossi didn't continue. The older man was looking into a far off place right now. "It can be very useful," Thorne offered, "but it can also be dangerous. And as I said, it's almost never employed by someone working alone. But Interpol gambled. Emily is at the top of her game as an operative. She's done this kind of work before. And lest we forget, Emily Prentiss is quite the gifted profiler." Thorne shook his head, as if he were trying to shake out the reminder.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Morgan asked, defensively.

"Think about it," Thorne said, incredulously. How did Morgan not see the connection? "A trained operative can learn a lot from Reverse Interrogation. But a trained operative who's also a profiler? Forget it. She'd be able to pick up so much more."

"By 'interrogator' you mean 'torturer,' right?" JJ asked quietly but clearly, her own trauma still fresh in her mind.

"Yes." The answer was obvious, but still needed to be said.

Rossi cleared his throat. "Please continue."

Thorne looked at him, searching for resolve. He didn't have to search long before he found it.  
>"Okay. Well, after Em's report on the true nature of the cell, something happened. Emily was found out. We didn't know how, but after a few days of no contact from her at all, we were sent the first video." Thorne shifted his weight. He was getting angry again. "The powers that be at Interpol decided not to go in and get her."<p>

It was quiet for a brief moment, then it was Penelope who asked the obvious question, "why not?"

"Why do you think?" Thorne asked back.

"The new protocol." Rossi stated quietly.

"Yes," Thorne confirmed.

"Interpol wanted to give the Reverse Interrogation some time to play out." Rossi was disgusted. He had had a little bit of experience with this tactic, back in the military. It was not something he'd ever recommend.

"They did," Thorne stated simply. "And then everything went to Hell."

No one spoke. Everyone had drifted into their own lanes with this new knowledge. Rossi was trying to stop himself from imagining Emily's 'interrogation.' He was failing miserably. Kate was thinking of the ways in which Emily's undercover ruse could have been discovered. JJ and Reid were each trying to keep their minds off of their own experiences with torture. Morgan was fuming. He was beyond pissed that Interpol had left her in. It would have been to his surprise, had he known, that Alastair Thorne was feeling the same thing in that moment. The room was quiet for almost a full five minutes before the silence was broken.

"I found it!" Garcia exclaimed.

"What babygirl?" Morgan asked.

Garcia had pushed her chair back from the table, away from her laptop, to which she was now pointing. "I found it. The video clip." "Of Emily," she added when no one spoke immediately.

"I told you NOT to look for that." Rossi was mad. The last thing they needed was anything else to go wrong, or anyone else to be taken from them.

"I didn't hack the government, I promise," she assured them. "I hacked the Ambassador. Agent Thorne said the clip was also sent to Ambassador Prentiss. I thought that would be easier. It was."

Everyone was staring at Garcia as if she were radioactive. They were all torn. Except for Morgan, who was staring at the open computer screen. It was a still, frozen image. Emily was hanging by her arms from the ceiling. Her clothing was torn, there were visible bruises on most of the open skin he could see, and her left eye was swollen shut. If he squinted, he thought he saw a blood puddle on the ground underneath her. Slowly, his finger reached toward the laptop, towards the play button.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Morgan was about to hit the play button when Garcia stopped him. She put her hand on his arm and squeezed hard.

"What is it, mama?" Morgan asked her, softly.

Garcia did not want to watch this video. That first glimpse had been enough. She didn't want to look at her buttercup being hurt this way; she didn't want to see what would happen next. Maybe, just maybe, if Morgan never pressed play, if no one ever pressed the button, then Prentiss would never be hurt, this would never have happened, and they'd all go about happy lives. But all she could say, because she knew they did need to watch it, was "She wouldn't want us to."

Morgan lowered his hand, but didn't say anything. It was Rossi who spoke. "Kitten. We have to watch it. We have to know everything we can. So we can help. So we can bring her home."

Penelope Garcia bore her eyes into the veteran profiler. She was looking for the spark of sincerity and the intensity of devotion. She soon found them both. "Promise me," she said, "promise me we will bring her home. To us, where she belongs."

Rossi reached out and squeezed her hand. "Penelope. I promise you we will do our very best." He couldn't make the promise she was asking for. Rossi knew, as did they all, that there were a great many variables to this situation. Emily's safe return was far from a lock.

Garcia understood what he was trying to say. She squeezed his hand back and then released her own and returned it to the laptop. Hitting a few keys, she transferred the video from her computer to the big screen at the head of the room. JJ and Reid gasped. They were on the other side of the room and hadn't yet seen the image of Emily at the beginning of the video: beaten, bruised, and bloody. After a moment for them all to steel themselves, Garcia hit the play button.

The video came to life with a voice speaking in another language, Turkish, Reid thought, or maybe Farsi. He didn't think it was Arabic. Emily, hanging from the ceiling, was swaying a little. A man, the man who was speaking, came into view from the side and put his hands on Emily. He was wearing a mask to keep himself unidentifiable. The man gripped her hair and yanked her head to the side while tracing a knife along her neck with the other hand. The knife was large, about six inches of blade. When he took the blade away, there was a new line of blood marring her skin. Continuing to speak, the man cut Emily's clothes off her body with the knife, leaving her in just her undergarments – which were also torn and ragged. He was moving slowly, but not in an exaggerated fashion. It was as if he understood what the impact of his actions would be and wanted to heighten the reaction while still making his point front and center. As her clothes fell, gasps and vocalizations filled the round table room. Emily's body was covered with wounds and bruises in various states of healing. Some were fresh and red, a few were still bleeding, and others looked like they had happened some time ago. Emily had clearly been tortured pretty significantly before this video was made. The man stopped talking. He moved his hands over her body, all of her body, making sure to touch most of her fresh wounds. Emily was silent. She was making no sound, but the profilers could see her tensing up in preparation. Her face, what they could see under the bruises, was taut and set in a hard mask. It must have taken every last ounce of resolve and strength to not cry out. She must have been scared. And in incredible pain.

The man started talking again, this time in English. English with just the barest hint of an accent. Rossi filed that away for later. "This woman," he said, gripping her chin hard with his right hand, keeping her swollen face looking right into the camera. He had moved behind Emily and was holding her around the waist with his left arm, in order to keep his body in contact with hers. "This woman is unclean. If you want her back, such as she is, you will claim her. You will identify her in public fashion within two days. You will release Stavros Dushenkin, Omar Anwari, and Frederich Lyvodkov from custody. If you do not do these things, you give up your claim to this woman. We will punish her for your errors as all dogs must be made to obey their masters. We do not care who she is. She is no one. _O baska bir sey degildir_." The man released her chin and pulled his knife again. "Something to think about in the meantime," he said, cold as ice. The man tightened his grip on Emily's body and plunged the knife into her side, up to the hilt. Emily cried out this time, how could she not. "The longer you wait, the worse it will be for this _Amerikan fahise_." He twisted the knife before pulling it from her body and releasing her, letting her swing, limp and choking back sobs. The man put his thumb in the stab wound and pressed; Emily grunted and moaned. The man whispered something to her that wasn't intelligible on the video. He pressed into the open wound again and, with one flick of the knife, cut open Emily's bra, as the video dissolved into blackness.

No one moved. Garcia was crying. Reid was staring at the screen with wet eyes holding JJ's hand. JJ's other hand was in a fist on her mouth, holding back her own sobs. She was decidedly NOT looking at the screen. Rossi had stood up and moved to the back of the room, putting as much distance as possible between himself and what he had seen. Kate was still watching the blank screen, as if it might play again. Morgan slammed his fist down into the table. "No," he said quietly. "No," a little louder now, "No. This is not happening. It is not. Happening." Morgan stood up from the table and paced a few steps, then slammed his fist into the wall, bloodying his knuckles.

Thorne surveyed the room. He saw sadness and anger, disbelief and resolve. He saw shock. "I know that was hard to watch."

"You think?" Morgan tossed back.

"I know that it was," Thorne continued, "but you have to understand. What happened there; it's in the past. She's not in that place anymore. We have to focus on the now."

"They saw this?" Reid asked. "Interpol saw this video and then decided not to go in and get her?"

Morgan looked at Reid. He had momentarily forgotten that part of the story. That someone Emily trusted had betrayed her. "Who was it?" he demanded of Thorne. "Who at Interpol made that decision? I want a name!"

"I can't give you that Agent Morgan," Thorne answered. He needed this team focused on working out the conspiracy, not on their own need for vengeance. He needed their behavioral expertise. If this keeps up, he won't be able to show them the longer video; the one that shows more of the players. "I don't know exactly, and it doesn't matter. Emily managed to communicate some intel in this video. Did you notice?"

The profilers looked at him. They had all missed it.

"That middle section," Thorne explained, "where he's holding her face to the camera. She was blinking her eye." Just the one eye because the other one was swollen nearly shut.

"What about it?" Kate asked.

"It was old Morse code. She gave us a name." Thorne gave that a moment to land. "Seref Khaled. He's an arms dealer that Interpol's been after for, literally, years. Khaled manages to slip through cracks like water. Based on that name, and that Emily was able to communicate it at all, Interpol kept her in place."

"Ridiculous," muttered Rossi.

"Be that as it may," Thorne said gingerly, "they did. Once the allotted two days were up, with no action from any intelligence organization, this video was sent to Ambassador Prentiss. As I mentioned. Interpol was backed into a corner and went into action. Their rescue attempt failed. The Ambassador reached out to me. And now here we are."

After a moment to process everything, Reid turned to Alastair Thorne. "Thank you," he said sincerely, "for saving Emily." Thorne held the eye contact with the young Doctor. He nodded.

"What language was that?" Kate asked.

"It was Turkish," Thorne replied. "At the beginning was just empty rhetoric about foreign infidels and unwanted attention. It was non-distinct threats and declarations. Then later he called her a 'nothing' and 'an American whore.' It isn't really important what words he used, but rather how he said them."

"What do you mean?" Kate asked.

"His English was almost perfect," Rossi said, still looking away from the group.

"It was." Thorne looked to Rossi, then back to the group. "If you listen closely, you'll hear a slight European accent. It's rather generic, but we're pretty sure that man is a westerner. We don't know who he is though."

"You said before," Reid began, "that the Jihad was just a front." His wheels were turning. "Is it a middle-eastern group at all? Or a Turkish group?" he asked.

"We don't think so. Or at least, not specifically," Thorne answered. "Emily said, from what she remembers, what she could tell, there were men of different nationalities in the group. And those names mentioned on the video? Stavros Dushenkin is a Turkish citizen. Omar Anwari is Iranian. Frederick Lyvodkov is Russian. Dushenkin is in a British prison in the third year of a ten year sentence for Homicide. Anwari is a ghost detainee at Guantanimo. I think. Lyvodkov was picked up by the French in Algeria last year for plotting to build a bomb. As far as I know, he was released a month before Emily was taken. There's a disconnect between these individuals and this group. Their demands don't make sense."

"You think they were cover for the other demand in the video?" Morgan asked.

"What other demand?" Kate asked.

It was JJ who answered, speaking for the first time since seeing the video. "The demand that Emily be publicly identified."

"Yes," Thorne said simply.

"Why?" Garcia asked, she had stopped crying, but was still teary. "Why is that important?"

"Think about it." Rossi answered her. "Whoever's behind this group is trying to end Prentiss' undercover career. If that happens, her value as a covert intelligence asset drops way down. They're trying to force her out of the game."

"Right," Thorne confirmed.

After a short moment, Kate asked a question: "Why bother?" Morgan shot her an angry look. "I mean, why bother ruining her career? Why not just kill her. Why didn't they? If the rest of their demands are bogus, then Agent Prentiss isn't really a bargaining chip. Why not just kill her?"

No one could answer her. Not even Thorne. That was one of the questions he still needed to answer. As of yet, he didn't even have the beginning of one.

In the silence that followed Kate's question, someone knocked on the door. It was still locked. Kate opened it to find Agent Anderson standing with another man.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you Agent Callahan, but there's an agent here from Homeland Security who needs to speak to the team." Anderson was uncomfortable and it showed. He was in the bullpen when Hotch was taken away in handcuffs earlier. He didn't know what was going on, but he could only imagine the mood in the round table room right now.

Kate looked past Anderson at the Homeland Agent. He was young, fidgety, and looked almost as uncomfortable as Anderson. This couldn't possibly be good news. "Thank you," she said to Anderson. As he quickly made his way back down the stairs, Kate gestured the new agent into the room. "Everyone," she began, "This is Agent…" she looked at the fidgety agent, prompting him.

"Clark. Agent Clark," he filled in.

"Agent Clark," Kate parroted with a sardonic smile, "he's from Homeland Security." The whole room groaned. Clark looked surprised, and even more uncomfortable, if that was possible.

"Out with it Homeland," Rossi barked.

Agent Clark took a deep breath and looked around the room. "I have a warrant," he began and then stopped. He pulled the warrant out of his suit jacket's inside pocket. "I have a FISA warrant for the arrest of Penelope Garcia."

Everyone's heads snapped over to Agent Clark in almost one motion. That was quite possibly the last thing anyone expected him to say.

"You must be joking," Morgan growled as he put a protective hand on Garcia's shoulder.

Clark checked the name on the warrant and looked back at Morgan, "No. Penelope Garcia. Is she here?" he asked, looking around the room.

"Say that again," Rossi demanded, "You have a what?"

"A FISA warrant," Clark said slowly, "That's a Foreign Intelligence Surveill…"

"We know what it is!" Rossi interrupted him, "Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act! We're all federal agents here, Christ! It's almost like we've done this already today!"

"Rossi," JJ cautioned.

"This is getting ridiculous," Rossi insisted.

"I know," JJ assured him. "Agent Clark," she continued as she stood up, "Can I see the warrant?" Clark handed JJ the warrant and she started reading.

"Um, what's…" Garcia started but she was cut off before she could finish.

"Quiet please," JJ said quickly, gesturing Garcia for quiet. "I'm reading." JJ gave her a look.

"Clark, was it?" Thorne interjected.

Agent Clark nodded, "yes."

"Clark, what is this about? Why is Ms. Garcia being arrested?" Thorne questioned.

"It's in the warrant," Clark said.

"Why don't you give us the short version, eh?" Thorne asked, taking a step closer to the nervous man.

"Well," Clark began, "Ms. Garcia has been colluding with a person of questionable allegiance. We have quite the electronic trail. It's not in doubt. We can't have her doing that from within the FBI."

"The electronic trail is her job," Morgan retorted, "Ms. Garcia is a technical analyst. A big part of what she does for us involves activities that would be questionable for a person not involved with law enforcement."

"She was a hacker for an anarchist collective" Clark responded.

"Ten years ago," Morgan came back.

"She lied to a federal agent," Clark added.

"She did no such thing," Morgan insisted.

"Morgan," Garcia said quietly.

"Penelope Garcia has been an asset to this team, and to her country, for more than ten years. You had better have some damn good proof." Morgan was not about to let anyone malign his family. Too much of that was happening today already.

"Morgan," Garcia said, a little louder this time.

"Baby girl, I got this," Morgan was about to launch into another defense when Garcia put her hand on this arm. He looked down at her. "What is it?"

"Stop. It's okay. I might have done such thing," she said tentatively.

"What are you talking about?" Morgan asked.

Thorne needed to stop this from happening. If Penelope confessed, she'd be arrested. Emily would be upset. He was too late to stop Hotchner's arrest, but he did actually have the means to stop Garcia's. "Everyone please stop talking."

"What?" Morgan asked him.

"Morgan, I beg you. Don't interrupt. I'll handle this," Thorne said confidently. He winked at Garcia as he took the FISA warrant from JJ and glanced through it. Then he handed it back to a confused Agent Clark. "We won't be needing this Agent, thank you."

"Look, I know this is surprising, but I assure you we have substantial proof. Penelope Garcia has been in contact with, and has been giving intelligence support to, a possible enemy of the state. Surely you understand, we cannot allow that to continue," Clark all but pleaded.

"By 'enemy of the state' you mean Emily Prentiss?" Thorne asked, just needing the man to confirm it.

"Look," Clark began, "it's not a matter of if, or what anyone thinks of Prentiss. She lied to a federal agent. Today."

Thorne looked to Garcia, who half shrugged-half nodded. Thorne turned his attention back to Agent Clark. "What?" he asked.

"She has been in contact with Emily Prentiss," Clark insisted, "trading information and providing technical support."

"It wasn't anything bad!" Garcia interjected.

"Hush now," Thorne shushed Garcia before turning back to Clark, "continue."

"She provided Mr. Watley and Agent Grant with a web address used to establish and carry out these communications with Prentiss earlier today," Clark explained. "That address has since been shut down with a rather sophisticated virus. We also know, for a fact, that there are other digital avenues open to Ms. Garcia. We need her to cease and desist all aid and support to Emily Prentiss. Keeping her in custody, under our roof, is the only way to ensure that happens. The BAU can't exactly be trusted with proximity to the Prentiss investigation right now."

The team looked at each other. If Homeland wanted to take Garcia into custody on a FISA warrant, there wouldn't be anything they could do about it. Garcia wouldn't do well in custody.

"Well fortunately, Agent Clark, none of this really matters," Thorne said charmingly. "I am in possession of a piece of paper that too." He picked up his briefcase bag, which he had left on the floor by the door to the room when he arrived and rifled through it. Finding what he needed, he handed the piece of paper to the dumbfounded agent.

Clark read over the paper. "Well," he said, "I suppose this changes things."

"What is it?" Morgan demanded.

"It's an order of immunity pursuant to special circumstances regarding one, Penelope Garcia," Thorne answered smugly.

Clark looked up, surprised. "It's signed by the Director of the FBI, the Director of Interpol, and the National Security Advisor," he said. "I don't understand," Clark admitted.

"Well Agent Clark," Thorne needled, "I believe my piece of paper trumps your piece of paper."

Clark looked back and forth between the Immunity deal and Alastair Thorne. "I have to make a call, verify this. Nobody go anywhere." Clark pulled out his cell and stepped out of the room.

The second the door closed behind Agent Clark, all eyes in the room turned to Penelope Garcia. She smiled sheepishly, "don't look at me. I didn't know this was going to happen."

"But you knew something," JJ demanded. "What have you been doing?"

"About seven months ago, Emily contacted me," Garcia began. "She needed help with a special project and she didn't want to use her own analyst."

"Penelope, I'm going to stop you right there," Thorne broke in. "I think it's best to save story time for when we're alone," he said, gesturing to the closed door. Clark would surely be back momentarily.

Garcia nodded, "right."

"But mama," Morgan needed to know just one thing, "did you know you had immunity from whatever this is all about?"

"No," Garcia shook her head. "Em just said she'd take of any problems I might have. I assumed she meant jurisdictional red tape."

"That's some red tape," Reid commented.

Thorne's cell phone buzzed just then and he looked down at it. A new text. He opened the text and smiled, just as Agent Clark returned to the room.

"Well," Clark began, "That immunity order seems to be intact. I'll need a copy of it."

"Certainly," Thorne said pleasantly. He pulled out another copy of the deal. "Here you go. Now, be on your way. Off you go."

"Look," Clark started in a conciliatory tone, "it's not like we don't know what she's doing. What happened to Agent Prentiss was…. Well, it was wrong, to say the least. And some of us in the intelligence community even believe that she should be allowed to finish what's doing. But that's not the official position. Agent Prentiss is way out of bounds right now. If you want to help her, bring her in safely. No one's out to hurt her right now. We just need answers. But if she keeps doing what she's doing. If this goes on for too much longer, I can't guarantee that'll remain the case. Just. Just tell her to stop." With that, Clark was out the door.

Clark's parting comments had awakened the conspiracy thread to this whole mess and everyone's brain was spinning. They needed answers from Garcia as well. The technical analyst had clearly been holding out on them. No one could remember a time when she had done so for so long before. Thorne's cell phone buzzed one more time.

"What is that?" Rossi asked.

"That is the confirmation I've been waiting for," Thorne responded. "My team just sent me Hotchner's location. Thankfully, he's at the State Department. I will go see about retrieving him. While I'm gone, try to work through your emotions. When I get back with Hotchner, we'll need to go to work." Thorne packed up his bag and made a move toward the door.

"Hold up," Rossi stopped him. "I'll walk you out." The two men walked out of the room and through the bullpen in silence. When they got to the elevators, Rossi spoke. "Thorne, that video." Rossi looked at Thorne, and then up at the ceiling, before continuing. "It was…it ended with… Earlier you mentioned that you found a longer video of her interrogation." Rossi returned his eyes to the British spy, his question implied.

"I did," Thorne confirmed.

"Did you watch it?" Rossi asked him.

"Aye, I did," Thorne said carefully. He wanted to let the older man take his time.

"Did they," Rossi started but couldn't finish. He took a deep breath and tried again, "was she raped?"

Thorne shifted his eyes. "I don't know." And he didn't, he truly didn't. Emily hadn't said it out loud, though he hadn't expressly asked her. There was nothing about it in the official documentation from the hospital, but that was easily manipulated. "I just don't know," Thorne repeated as the elevator dinged, signaling its arrival.

Thorne held Rossi's eyes until the elevator doors closed. Rossi was left to wonder about the possibility alone, in the empty foyer. He was afraid of the direction of his thoughts.

TBC

**Author's Note**:

Thanks everyone. It's really encouraging to know you are all still reading this story. The reviews you're leaving also help to remind me of questions that are out there and aspects to the story that still need to be cleared up. They're so helpful, thank you! Please keep leaving them. In the next chapter, we'll finish up (I think) Hotch's interrogation and then it won't be too much longer till we get Hotch and Emily in the same room. yay! Also, rmpcmfan, I hear what you're saying about the Reverse Interrogation tactic (which is real by the way, I did some research). And your comments will be explored. Why Emily would agree to that and why Interpol would push for it. I just want her to be able to explain that herself, so we have to wait until she's a more active part of the story (which won't be too much longer, I promise).

Thanks again everyone, I really hope you're still enjoying the story!


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:**

I'm so sorry for how long it took me to get this chapter up. It was difficult to write. I re-wrote it several times and though I do still think it could be better, I'm pleased with how it turned out. I have to be done with it and move on to the next chapter. I think it does what it needs to do here. I'm curious to know what you think.

I don't expect these long delays will be a pattern, I've got the next few chapters somewhat planned out.

**Chapter 9**

"She set you up, Agent Hotchner," Watley was too smug, "Face it. She is not on your team anymore. There's no need for you to stay on hers."

Watley was looking at him as if that was justification enough for Hotch to roll over on Emily. As if. Hotch just stared back. He stared back, a few seconds longer than was comfortable. Watley's smug smile faded. "Agent Prentiss," Hotch said, when he was sure he had Watley's full attention, "did not set me up. We don't do that to each other." Hotch sincerely hoped they took his meaning. No amount of interrogation tactics were going to get him to give her up. Fortunately, Hotch thought, he didn't actually have much to give. He was hoping to pick up a little new information here.

"Oh no?" Agent Grant asked, "She didn't set you up? You're that certain?"

"Yes," Hotch answered firmly.

Grant nodded his head, sat back in his chair, and pondered Hotch. "Okay," he said, after a moment, "then what do you make of this?" Grant slid a manila folder across the table.

For a brief moment, Hotch didn't reach for the folder. He didn't want to touch it. Whatever was in that folder was going to be radioactive. He could just feel it. But Hotch couldn't not know. He looked down at the folder, set his facial expression into a hard mask and looked up again at Agent Grant. Grant didn't seem particularly antagonistic right then. Hotch reached for the file, but Grant beat him to it. What the hell was going on?

"Just a second, Agent Hotchner," Grant cautioned, pulling the file back toward himself. "One question first: Did you know?"

Hotch studied Grant a little more intensely. He needed to tread lightly here. Watley was a buffoon with some kind of an agenda. But Grant. Agent Grant was not. He seemed to be the real deal, an agent working his case, going where it led him. "Did I know what?" he asked, stalling for time.

"Did you know," Grant repeated, patiently, "that Agent Prentiss named you guardian of her son? Did you know that she made you her medical and legal proxies? Did you know about the money, the bank accounts?"

In this moment, Max Grant was exuding the patience of a saint. But Hotch knew the truth. He could sense it. He could see it. Grant was right up on the edge of it, waiting. Hotch had to be careful here. He needed to keep his mask of cold, hard, indifference in place. The truth was that no, he had no freaking clue about any of it. Showing that would lead to an outbreak of emotion, which was what you did not want to have when you were on this side of the interrogation. No, he did not know that Emily had basically resigned the end of her life (again), and he did not want to acknowledge that fact in front of outsiders. Admitting that right now would also make him look weak. It would cement for Grant and Watley that Emily had set him up. Which technically, Hotch couldn't help but think a traitorous thought, technically she did. But not with malicious intent. He needed to figure out why she did this right now, in this moment. These agents thinking Emily set him up with malice and forethought would be bad for her, and he wouldn't be able to be much of a help. Plus, these guys weren't likely to believe him if he told the truth and said no. They'd just end up with more run-around and posturing.

If he went along with whatever Emily had set in motion and said yes, that he did know what she was doing, it could also turn out very badly. For both of them. He would be lying to the Federal Government. If the lie was revealed, he could lose his job or go to prison. He certainly wouldn't be able to help her from behind bars. If he lied and said yes, they could potentially charge him with any number of crimes. From collusion to aiding and abetting all the way up to a conspiracy to commit murder charge. Not to mention kidnapping. What would happen to Jack if he went to jail? And did they really think he kidnapped Declan? Or was that just verbal bait for something else?

It really all came down to what was in that folder. The folder Grant was dangling in front of him like bait for the hook. Hotch knew the hook was there, but he couldn't see how sharp it was. And unfortunately, in order to actually lay eyes on what was in that folder, Hotch had to answer the question. He had to answer it right now. Tell the truth, not be believed, and not be in a position to help Emily. Or. Lie to the government, put himself in a position to be charged with any number of crimes, potentially jeopardize his son, and gain new information so that he could – maybe – help Emily in some small way. Neither option really looked good to him at this moment.

Hotch decided to take the gamble. And trust Emily. Trusting Emily was usually a good bet. Ah Hell, he thought, if this backfired maybe they could share a cell in federal prison. He set his mask firmly in place, looked Agent Grant in the eye, and lied. "Of course I knew."

Grant was watching him closely, looking for tells. Hotch was certain he wasn't showing any. Grant slid the file back across the table. "Okay then, look through that and tell me what you can make out. Profile the person who made all of those choices for us."

Agent Grant was daring him, it seemed to Hotch. Again, Hotch looked down at the manila folder. A regular, old, innocuous looking manila folder. The kind used in offices all across the country. This time, when he reached for it, Grant let him pick it up. Hotch threw one last searching look at Agent Grant. His face was just as impassive as his own was. Hotch released a breath and opened the file.

Keeping his facial mask firmly in place, Hotch felt an internal sigh of relief. The first several pages were legal documents to support the legal changes Watley and Grant told him Emily had made. He was looking at copies of her Will, Living Will, Custody agreements, Life Insurance and Banking documentation. All of which had his signature on them. None of which, had he actually signed himself. Emily had forged his signature. On everything. If he told the truth about his ignorance to all of this, he would have been one of the nails in her coffin. At least this way, with his lie, he managed to play along with what she had set up. If the forgeries were discovered, however, it would be back to square one and a possible prison term. He decided to deal with that if and when it came up.

"What do you see, Agent Hotchner?" Grant prompted him. So that wasn't a rhetorical question then. They actually wanted an assessment from him.

"Remember Hotchner, you used to be a lawyer," needled Watley.

"Meaning?" Hotch asked, thinly.

"You understand what it means to lie to the government, don't you?" Watley asked, flippantly.

"What are you talking about?" Hotch understood the statement behind the question. Watley was telling Hotch that he didn't fully believe him. Or maybe the bastard was just poking at him. For fun.

"You know we served a search warrant on your home," Watley began, "but you should know that we've been operating on other warrants too." Watley was having too much fun with this; he looked at his watch. "Right about now your technical analyst, Miss Penelope Garcia, is being arrested too. She'll be here shortly. We got a FISA warrant for her. We were granted several of those over the past few days. What do you think about that, Hotchner?" That smug smirk was back, taking up residence on Richard Watley's sinister face.

Hotch groaned, internally. He had wondered about Garcia back at the BAU. How much she knew, if she were holding out on them. He really shouldn't have dismissed the thought. He hoped that she would remember to ask for a lawyer, Garcia wouldn't do well sitting where he was now. Wait a minute, his thoughts ran into a connection that shouldn't have been made. He looked from Watley to Grant. "You can't make an arrest with a FISA warrant." Surely these guys knew that, what game were they playing?

It was Grant who responded. "No, Agent Hotchner, we can't. We can however use the Federal Intelligence Surveillance Act for a particular aspect of its current purpose."

"Electronic surveillance,"Hotch supplied. He sighed, that probably should have been a given.

"That's right," Grant finished.

"We put certain members of your team under electronic surveillance. Then, of course, we used what we found to get a regular old arrest warrant for your analyst," Watley crowed.

"Stay away from my team." Hotch zeroed in on Watley. "They are all Federal Agents in good standing. The FBI will have their backs. So unless you want an inter-agency war on your hands, you'd better have rock solid evidence of any wrong-doing. You won't find it. That, gentlemen, I guarantee you."

"You know what we didn't find, Agent Hotchner?" Grant ignored Hotch's threat. "We didn't find any evidence of you having been a part of what's in that folder. No email traffic about any of it. No texts. No faxes. No official messenger service. No notary identification. No documents going through the mail. Nothing. Why do you think that is?"

Hotch answered without a moment's hesitation, "I don't know Agent Grant. You know how these things work. Big bureaucracy. Items get mis-filed and mis-labeled all the time." Sometimes the best thing to do with a lie, in order to sell it, was keep it going. Doing so deeply offended Hotch's ethical compass, but he had already chosen this path. He'd stay the course.

"None of this changes your image of Ms. Prentiss though, does it Hotchner?" asked Watley, with just a hint of malice.

Hotch looked at Mr. Watley. "What is your point?"

Watley smirked at him. "You're looking at a stack of legal documentation, all bearing your signature, however it got there, which seems to suggest Prentiss was giving you everything she had. Including her son. And control over her very life itself. Maybe that alters the profile a little. Doesn't it? Make you wonder at all? About motives. And follow-through. And consequences."

Hotch felt an even stronger revulsion for the man building up inside him. "No. It does not. It concerns me, Mr. Watley, that you think there's a sinister way to look at this file." He shifted his attention to Agent Grant, whom he viewed as the more reasonable of the two. "You asked for a profile. This folder paints a picture of a woman coming back after a trauma. A woman who'd just had a taste of mortality and needed to make sure her child was taken care of. By someone she trusted not to let them down. This folder profiles a woman looking at her own death coming potentially sooner than she'd planned it and wanting to make sure her affairs were in order. For her son. That's what I see." He looked hard at Watley. "It's the responsible thing to do," he couldn't help but add.

"That's what you see?" asked Watley.

"Yes," Hotch stated simply.

"A woman putting her affairs in order ahead of her death?" Watley clarified.

"Yes," Hotch said again.

"That's what we see too," Grant spoke up.

"In a slightly different context," Watley tagged on. "We see a woman, who has spent a large amount of time in the Middle east, who has recently suffered a trauma, in Turkey, putting her affairs in order because she knows she'll likely be dead soon. What does that sound like to you, Agent?"

Hotch's mask broke briefly and his face betrayed his disbelief. They couldn't possibly think that, could they? "You don't think…" he trailed off, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to finish the thought out loud.

Watley happily picked up his thread. "She filed an updated Will, gave away custody of her son, made you the executor of her estate, added you to bank accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands I bet you didn't even know she had—"

"So that I'd be able to take care of Declan!" Hotch interrupted.

"Maybe. She did all these things, plus make you her medical and legal proxy should she survive but remain unable to make her own decisions. She's practically textbook. The only thing she didn't leave was a videotape! Sounds like your average, run-of-the-mill, extremist martyr to me!" Watley announced in triumph.

Hotch was livid. He was trying desperately to hold himself still and in check. "Wow, your grasp on nuance is astounding. It's a good thing you don't run this country's foreign policy. That is a sweeping generalization and a very large, and erroneous, jump to conclusions." He looked to Grant for a more reasonable mindset. "Emily Prentiss is not a martyr, religious or political. She is not now, nor will ever be, a suicide bomber. She is not now, nor will ever be, a terrorist. Anyone thinking otherwise is looking under the wrong damn rock!"

"Really? Well, two of the men responsible for torturing her are dead! What do you call that?" Watley spat out.

"Not enough!" Hotch snarled, just as quickly, without thinking.

Watley and Grant were both staring at him. Watley, in triumph; Grant, in sympathy. Hotch stared right back at them. It took a full minute of this stand off for Hotch to realize what he'd just said. His mask of indifference was long gone; he knew his face was an open book right now. Hotch tried to backpedal, but he knew it was probably in vain. "I didn't mean to imply…" he started to correct himself but couldn't finish the thought. "I didn't mean that," he said simply, quietly.

"No?" Grant asked?

"No," Hotch knew he needed to regroup, but at the moment he didn't feel capable.

"It would be perfectly understandable if you did. Someone you care about was hurt. And you don't know where she is. Which means you can't protect her. It makes perfect sense to want a little payback," Grant reassured.

It was a human thing to say, but Hotch didn't trust it. He needed to get his guard back up before they led him down another path he didn't see coming.

"That's a pattern for you, though, isn't it?" Watley asked. "Not being able to protect the women in your life."

Hotch closed his eyes. He did not want to hear this. He didn't need to hear this in someone else's voice. He heard it enough in his own thoughts.

Watley continued, "One of your agents was attacked in her own home. On your watch. Elle Greenaway. She later went rogue and took her vengeance by killing a suspect in cold blood. Also on your watch. Because you couldn't protect her in the first place. And you couldn't help her after the fact."

That's not exactly how that happened, Hotch thought.

"Your analyst. She was also attacked. At her home. You couldn't protect her either. And when it came down to it. Someone else took the fatal shot." Watley added.

JJ. JJ had taken the shot that killed Jason Clark Battle, Hotch reminded himself. The man who had come after Penelope Garcia. The man no one saw coming because Garcia kept things from them. From him. He should have been watching more closely.

"Your ex-wife," Watley went on, "was stalked and murdered by a psychopath who was coming after you. She was bait, collateral damage. Your son lost his mother because you couldn't protect her. You couldn't catch him. You weren't there."

Foyet was a sociopath, Hotch corrected mentally. What happened to Haley wasn't my fault, he thought automatically. This was something Hotch told himself nearly every day. The problem was, he rarely believed it. I did catch him, Hotch reminded himself. I killed that son of a bitch with my bare hands. Hotch was sure they knew that.

Unbelievably, Watley was still talking; still listing the women Hotch had failed. "Another of your agents, Jennifer Jareau, was kidnapped and tortured just last year. Again, you weren't there. You couldn't stop it. You couldn't save her. You had to call in reinforcements."

Emily, Hotch thought, he had called Emily. Emily had saved JJ.

Watley pressed on, "That's why this one must sit so wrong with you. Emily Prentiss is the one woman in your life you are not supposed to have to protect, right? Emily Prentiss does the protecting. Emily Prentiss is strong. She's a fighter, a survivor."

Emily is a fighter. She is strong. She will survive this. Hotch knew that in his bones. Just like he knew he would help her this time.

"There's nothing left for you to defend here. You've already failed her Hotchner. You do know that, don't you?" Watley asked him.

It sounded to Hotch like Watley had dropped the smugness and the seemingly constant smirk. He seemed to be asking a legitimate question. Hotch looked up at Watley, trying to ferret out his intent.

"The only thing left for you to do, Agent Hotchner," Grant added, "is to stop the situation from getting any worse."

"Because really," Watley returned, "Ms. Prentiss is making it worse all on her own. And this time, no allowances, no generalizations are going to be made. Not any part of this will be smoothed over or ignored. Prentiss will not get the soft exit that Greenaway got. Too many governments are in play. She will be made to account for what she's done. You need to decide if you're ready to go down with her."

Hotch shook his head. "No. Prentiss doesn't react out of vengeance. She doesn't have a need for retribution. She's not like that. That's where you're wrong; where all your theories go off the rails."

"You really think that?" Grant asked.

"Adamantly," Hotch came back.

"Okay." Grant turned on the tablet in front of him and set it up in front of Hotch. "We're gonna leave you alone now. When you're ready, press play," Grant pointed to the tablet. "There are two video files. The second one will play right after the fist."

"Then you tell us," Watley added, "whether or not your girl's above a little revenge."

Hotch watched Watley and Grant leave the room without a word. Once the door closed securely behind them, he released the breath he had been holding; only then did he turn his attention to the tablet in front of him. He looked at the tablet. It was an everyday object, as non-threatening as anything could be. Yet Hotch was looking at the tablet as if it were the enemy. Because in this moment, it was. The play button was blinking at him. Mocking him. Daring him to start the video. Hotch reminded himself that what he was about to see had already happened. That it was not happening to Emily right now. It had already stopped. It was in the past. He took one more deep breath. And pressed play.

Emily appeared before his eyes. Not like he preferred to picture her. He liked to imagine her happy, laughing and enjoying herself; or with a gun in hand, suited up and ready to do some damage to the unsubs of the world. Not like this. Hotch's lips tightened into a line and his hands into fists. She was bruised and bloody – and hanging from a pipe. She had clearly been beaten. She was dirty. Wherever they were keeping her wasn't clean. Which meant it probably wasn't warm or comfortable either. Emily was not enjoying herself here. She was not the one doing the damage. What was clear though, was that someone had definitely enjoyed themselves while hurting Emily.

Hotch's fists tightened as he watched the man scrape his knife down her neck. The blood trail pissed him off; it was unnecessary. His fists tightened even further as he watched the man cut the clothes off her body. His fingernails cut into the flesh of his palms, drawing his own blood, as he saw how bruised and bloody her body was, under the torn clothing, now falling from her limp body. He shook his head, a weak attempt to make the man in the video stop touching her. Couldn't he see it was hurting her? Her beautiful face, usually an image of strength and grace was swollen and bruised, struggling not to cry out, to betray what she was feeling. Hotch watched something move across her face as the man began speaking in English. He barely registered the words.

The man was moving now. Moving around behind Emily. Emily was defenseless in that moment; not a word he usually used to describe her. Hotch watched in horror as the man plunged his knife into her side. Hearing Emily scream lit something on fire deep inside Hotch. He stood up like a shot, knocking his chair over in the process, almost as if he were recoiling from the sudden appearance of something dangerous. Later, when he replayed this in his mind, that's how he would think of it. Emily's screams were dangerous. They meant something deeply, deeply wrong was happening. He closed his eyes for half a second, because he just could not see any more of this. But only for half a second, because he had to see all of it. To bear witness to her trauma. When he opened them again, he saw the man cutting open her bra. The second the screen in front of him went black, he turned the video off: a rattlesnake striking its prey. He knew that tablet was dangerous.

Hotch took a few steps away from the table. He needed a minute before the next video started. A minute or two to gather himself and calm down. He paced. He thought. He tried to tamp down his rage. The man in the video was wearing a mask. Probably because someone could identify him. When he spoke, his voice was familiar; but Hotch couldn't place him. He had a western accent. It was pronounced when the man spoke in English, but it was also there while he spoke in Turkish (Hotch was pretty sure that first language had been Turkish). This must have been the video sent to the various organizations that Prentiss had worked for. (He needed to think of her as Prentiss right now. He needed that distance. Thinking of her as Emily was too personal; it was too close.) This video was about show. It was about shock. It was a tool of persuasion. If this were true, then Hotch was in no hurry to see what was on the second video. He eyed the tablet with apprehension. He paced a few more steps, and turned back to the tablet. Now or never. He pressed play one more time.

Hotch stood, with his hands on his hips, glaring at the tablet. Waiting for images of her to fill the screen once more. Except. It didn't happen that way this time. This time, he heard her before he saw her. This video was clearly a snippet of something larger. It was not edited, but rather began already in progress. Hotch heard her scream. It reminded him of that time he heard her being beaten by Benjamin Cyrus at the cult compound in Colorado six years ago. All he could do then was listen. This time, he had to watch too. He heard her scream as an image of a dirty room lit with low lights came into focus. The camera was focused on a wall and then slowly swung around to her. It was clear, someone was holding the camera, doing the filming. She was tied to a chair and a man was standing over her with what looked like a cattle prod. Hotch felt sick. He crossed his arms over his chest as a barrier between himself and the video.

The man was shaking the prod at her and yelling in what sounded like Russian. She managed to yell back, though Hotch could tell it was a struggle. Whatever she said (also in Russian), the man didn't seem to like. He stilled momentarily and then he swung his arm back and struck her with the prod, in the face. It looked hard. She was crying. Hotch could feel the hot pinpricks of tears in the corners of his own eyes. The man said something else to her; she shook her head. The man yelled again and lunged at her with the cattle prod, jabbing it into her abdomen. Electrocuting her. She screamed again as her whole body went rigid and her scream cut off. The man pulled the prod away and kept yelling at her. Hotch could see her struggling to breathe properly. The man hit her again and again, using the cattle prod like a baseball bat. Her cries were getting quieter and smaller. That was not a good sign. Hotch could still hear her, she was in so much pain. He could feel the bile rising up through his body. The man hit her again and the chair she was tied to toppled over and broke. She was able to shimmy free somewhat but before she could get away, the man put his foot on her neck. "Son of a bitch!" Hotch exclaimed, out loud. He couldn't contain it any longer, his eyes were wet and his rage was hot. In front of him, on the screen, she had stopped moving.

The man called over his shoulder. Apparently to the cameraman, because Hotch watched the image move on screen. It looked like the camera had been set on the ground and a set of legs came into view, running toward the other man. The man with his foot still on her neck. Hotch paced a couple of steps as he watched the cameraman hold her down by her shoulders and the first man get on top of her, sitting down on her shaking legs. He was still threatening her with that damn cattle prod. He pressed it into her stomach one more time. The screen cut to black but Hotch could still see her lying prone, at the mercy of two men who didn't seem capable of understanding the word. He could still hear her cries as he stared at the dark screen.

Hotch let the rage fill him up. That screen was still mocking him, having been witness to what happened to her. All of his reminders that this was in the past, that it was no longer happening were useless. He hadn't been prepared for what he would see. He focused all his fury on that tablet. He let out a scream of his own and flung that tablet into the wall. It broke with a less than satisfying crack that only served to fuel his anger and his revulsion. He needed to do something, but he couldn't because he was stuck in this room. Letting out a scream of his own, Hotch flipped the table over. That, at least, was a more satisfying crash. That felt good for a few seconds, then had a sickening thought. This must be how they felt when they were torturing her. Satisfied. The connection was too much for him in that moment and the bile in his system forced its way out. Hotch doubled over and choked up the bile, throwing up on the floor of his interrogation room.

That's fitting, he thought, moments later as he sat on the floor against the wall, trying desperately to regain control of his breathing and his emotional state. Now he felt connected to her, instead of them.

TBC

**Author's Note, again:**

Now that that's done, I don't imagine we'll have to go through that again. At least, not so much. Please tell me what you think. Thanks for reading it.


End file.
